SMALL  CRAFT 


C.  FOX  SMITH 


SMALL  CRAFT 
C.  FOX  SMITH 


BY 

C.  FOX  SMITH 

AUTHOR  OF  "SAILOR  TOWN,"  ETC. 


NEW   XS^  YORK 
GEORGE  H.  DORAN  COMPANY 


COPYRIGHT,  1919, 
BT  GEORGE   H.    DOBAN  COMPANY 


PRINTED  IN  THE  TTNITED  STATES  OF  AMERICA 


The  Author  is  indebted,  for  permission  to  reprint, 
to  the  Proprietors  of  Punch,  and  the  Editors  of  The 
Spectator,  The  Sphere,  The  Windsor  Magazine, 
Country  Life,  Grand  Magazine,  Patt  Mall  Gazette, 
Westminster  Gazette,  Daily  Chroniclet  Canada 
Monthly,  and  Week  (British  Columbia). 


CONTENTS 

I:  CHANTYS  ,AQB 

SMALL  CRAFT 13 

A  BALLAD  OF  OLD  AND  NEW 17 

SQUAREHEADS 21 

THE  NORTH  ATLANTIC  TRADE 25 

ADMIRAL  DUGOUT 29 

"Snips  THAT  PASS" 82 

"IN  PRIZE" 36 

THE  FIGHTING  MERCHANTMAN 39 

BILLY'S  YARN 42 

PHILOSOPHY 44 

THE  BALLAD  OF  THE  "DINKINBAR" 46 

GOOD  LUCE 52 

THE  DEFAULTER 53 

THE  LITTLE  THINGS 55 

THE  SONG  OF  THE  MILL 57 

THE  FIVE  RICKS 60 

BULLINGTON 62 

THE  GIPSY  SOLDIER 65 

MERCHANTMEN 68 

THE  OPEN  BOAT        70 

THE  JOLLY  BARGEMAN 72 

— vii — 


CONTENTS 


PAGE 

"New  HEAVENS — NEW  EARTH" 74 

ST.  ANDREW'S  EVE 77 

THE  BALLAD  OF  THE  RESURRECTION  PACKET 78 

LIGHT  CRUISERS  (OLD) 82 

H:  SONGS  IN  SAIL 

THE  COAST  OF  BARBART 87 

PARADISE  STREET      . 89 

THE  OLD  FIDDLE 91 

DEEP  WATER  JACK 96 

THE  BLUE  PETER 98 

SHIPMATES 100 

A  SEA  BURTHEN 102 

SACRAMENTO 103 

CAPE  STIFF 105 

THE  LONG  ROAD  HOME 107 

THE  LOST  SHIP 109 

THE  OLD  WHALE Ill 

HI:  SONGS  OF  HOME 

A  MESSAGE 115 

NEWS  FROM  THE  NORTH 117 

A  GARDEN  m  THE  NORTH 120 

GHOSTS  IN  THE  GARDEN 122 

ALL  HALLOWS 124 

— viii — 


CONTENTS 


IV:  SONGS  OF  THE  WILD 

VAGI! 

PHASER  RIVER .  129 

THE  PLAINS  OF  MEXICO 131 

ALONG  THE  PRAIRIE  TRAIL 133 

PRAIRIE  WIND 135 

PRAIRIE  SUNSET 137 

THE  OLD-TIMER 138 

THE  CIRCUS  IN  THE  WEST 140 

V:  ROMANCE 

ROMANCE 145 

MORGAN  LE  FAT 147 

RONCEVAL       .....  149 

THE  WATERS  OF  OBLIVION 151 

LOVE'S  MARKETING ..  156 


-IX- 


I:  CHANT YS 


SMALL  CRAFT 


WHEN  Drake  sailed  out  from  Devon  to  break  King 

Philip's  pride, 
He  had  great  ships  at  his  bidding  and  little  ones 

beside, 
"Revenge"  was  there  and  "Lion,"  and  others  known 

to  fame, 
And  likewise  he  had  Small  Craft  (which  hadn't  any 

name!). 

Small  Craft — Small  Craft — to  harry  and  to  flout 

'em! 
Small  Craft — Small  Craft — you  cannot  do  without 

'em! 
Their  deeds  are  unrecorded,  their  names  are  never 

seen, 
But  we  know  that  there  were  Small  Craft — because 

there  must  have  been! 


SMALL    CRAFT 


When  Nelson  was  blockading  for  three  long  years 
and  more, 

With  many  a  bluff  first-rater  and  oaken  "Seventy- 
four," 

To  share  the  fun  and  fighting,  the  good  chance  and 
the  bad, 

Oh,  he  had  also  Small  Craft — because  he  must  have 
had! 


Upon  the  skirts  of  battle  from  Sluys  to  Trafalgar 

We  know  that  there  were  Small  Craft — because 
there  always  are! 

Yacht,  sweeper,  sloop  and  drifter — to-day  as  yes- 
terday 

The  big  ships  fight  the  battles — but  the  Small  Craft 
clear  the  way! 


They  scout  before  the  squadrons  when  mighty  fleets 

engage; 
They  glean  War's  dreadful  harvest  when  the  fight 

has  ceased  to  rage ; 
Too  great  they  count  no  hazard,  no  task  beyond 

their  power; 
And  merchantmen  bless  Small  Craft  a  hundred  times 

an  hour! 
—14— 


SMALL   CRAFT 


In   Admirals'   despatches   their  names   are   seldom 

heard, 

They  justify  their  being  by  more  than  written  word; 
In  battle,  toil  and  tempest,  and  dangers  manifold, 
The  doughty  deeds  of  Small  Craft  will  never  all  be 

told. 

Scant  ease  and  scantier  leisure — they  take  no  heed 

of  these, 
For  men  lie  hard  in  Small  Craft  when  storm  is  on 

the  seas; 

A  long  watch  and  a  weary  from  dawn  to  set  of  sun — 
The  men  who  serve  in  Small  Craft,  their  work  is 

never  done. 

And  if,  as  chance  may  have  it,  some  bitter  day  they 

lie 
Out-classed,  out-gunned,  out-numbered,  with  nought 

to  do  but  die, 
When  the  last  gun's  out  of  action,  good-bye  to  ship 

and  crew — 
But  men  die  hard  in  Small  Craft,  as  they  will  always 

do! 

Oh,  Death  comes  once  to  each  man,  and  the  game  it 

pays  for  all, 

And  Duty  is  but  Duty,  in  great  ship  and  in  small, 

—15— 


SMALL  CRAFT 


And  it  will  not  vex  their  slumbers,  or  make  less  sweet 

their  rest, 
Though  there's  never  a  big  black  headline  for  Small 

Craft  going  west. 

Great  ships  and  mighty  captains — to  these  their 

meed  of  praise 
For  patience,  skill  and  daring,  and  loud  victorious 

days, — 

To  every  man  his  portion,  as  is  both  right  and  fair, 
But  oh !  forget  not  Small  Craft,  for  they  have  done 

their  share. 

Small   Craft — Small  Craft— from   Scapa  Flow  to 

Dover; 

Small  Craft — Small  Craft — all  the  wide  world  over ; 
At  risk  of  war  and  shipwreck,  torpedo,  mine  and 

shell- 
All  honour  be  to  Small  Craft,  for  oh,  they've  earned 

it  well! 


A  BALLAD  OF  OLD  AND  NEW 

As  I  went  down  through  Portsmouth  Town,  with  my 

bundle  in  my  hand, 
I  met  a  chap  in  a  pigtail  rig,  just  newly  come  to 

land; 
I  met  a  fellow  of  an  old-style  build,  with  a  look  both 

bold  and  free, — 
With  varnished  hat  and  buckled  shoes,  like  the  men 

of  the  Old  Navee. 

"What  news,  what  news,  young  fellow,"  he  said.  *'of 

rigging  loft  and  yard; 
What  ships  are  new,  and  what  are  built  this  year  at 

Buckler's  Hard? 
And  is  the  cry,  'More  frigates,'  still,  as  I  mind  it  used 

to  be? 
Do  England's  oaks  build  ships  this  day  like  the  ships 

of  the  Old  Navee? 

"And  when  these  things  you've  answered  all,  why, 

then,  lad,  tell  me  true, 
Who  stands  this  day  where  Nelson  stood  (if  any  so 

may  do), 


SMALL  CRAFT 


What  prizes  late  our  Fleet  has  won,  what  victories 

gained  at  sea; 
Does  England  hold  what  she  fought  for  of  old,  in 

the  days  of  the  Old  Navee  ?" 
###*## 

"By  Tyne  and  Clyde  and  Merseyside  our  ships  lie 

keel  by  keel, 
And  a  man  must  stop  his  ears  to  hear  the  hammers 

on  the  steel; 
By  Buckler's  Hard  nought  now  you  hear  but  song 

of  bird  and  tree, 
But  the  ships  of  grey  will  be  first  in  the  fray  like  the 

ships  of  the  Old  Navee. 

"Dogger  and  Bight  and  Falklands  fight,  and  one  or 

two  beside, 
And   Jutland  Bank   shall  one   day  rank  with  the 

names  of  Nelson's  pride; 
But  that's  a  tale  is  all  too  hard  for  simple  lads  like 

me, — 
Not  word,  but  deed,  is  the  sailor's  creed,  as  it  was 

in  the  Old  Navee. 

"But  when  the  time  for  deeds  is  come,  we've  fighting 

lads  a  few, 
Can  hit  and  hold,  both  swift  and  bold,  the  same's 

they  used  to  do, 
—18— 


A  BALLAD  OF  OLD  AND  NEW 


Can  hunt  the  pirate   submarine   from  broad   and 

narrow  sea, 
And  strike  the  raider  in  his  lair  as  they  did  in  the 

Old  Navee. 

"So  let  the  Navy  have  her  fling,  she'll  show  in  the 
Navy's  way 

Our  frontier  is  the  foeman's  shore,  to-day  as  yes- 
terday : 

For  the  fights  that  are  fought  on  blue  water  will 
win  or  lose  the  sea, 

As  it  was  when  Hawke  and  Nelson  sailed  in  the 
ships  of  the  Old  Navee. 

"And  all  we  ask  is  to  finish  our  task  some  day  with 

a  free  sky  o'er  us, 
A  day  fair  and  fine,  with  a  clear  skyline,  and  a  foe 

that  will  stand  before  us : 
We've  a  man  from  Wexford  that  we  know  full  well 

for  as  good  as  any  may  be, 
And  the  bulldog  grip  that  never  lets  slip,  as  it  was  in 

the  Old  Navee!" 

As  I  went  down  through  Portsmouth  Town,  a  cold 

rain  falling  fast, 
I  saw  the  flap  of  old  "Victory's"  flag,  where  she 

dreams  of  victories  past, 

—19— 


SMALL  CRAFT 


And  this  was  the  word  the  salt  wind  bore  that  blew 

from  the  English  sea: 
"Be  it  steam  or  sail,  you  weather  the  gale  by  the 

New  as  the  Old  Naveel'* 


-20— 


SQUAREHEADS 

"I  NEVER  did  'ave  no  use  for  Germans"  (said  Bill 

the  bosun  to  me, 
As  he  sat  on  the  after  hatchway  coaming,  smoking 

and  drinking  his  tea) ; 
"Never  did  'ave  no  use  for  square'eads,  sonny,  an' 

that's  the  truth, 
Since  I  went  to  sea  in  the  old  *Lorid  Clive,'  back  there 

in  the  days  o'  my  youth. 

"Danes  I  'ave  knowed,  an'  Swedes  I  'ave  knowed,  as 
was  white  men  through  and  through, 

Norwegian — nigger — yeller  an'  brown — an*  hard- 
case  citizens  too: 

I've  sailed  in  my  time  with  most  o*  the  brands,  Dago, 
Dutchman,  and  Finn, 

But  never  a  decent  shipmate  yet  did  I  strike  in  a 
German  skin. 

"Never  the  feller  a  man  M  choose  to  be  with  in  a 

watch  together, 
Never  the  feller  you'd  like  to  know  was  around  in 

the  worst  o'  weather, 

—21— 


SMALL  CRAFT 


Never  the  chap  as  you'd  want  by  your  side  when 

caught  aback  in  a  gale, 
Or  lay  in*  aloft  in  your  shirt,  maybe,  off  the  Plate 

there  shortenin'  sail. 

"All  very  well  for  a  harbour  job  they  are,  as  I  make 

no  doubt, 
Or  'andin'  plates  in  a  restorong,  or  sweepin*  the 

cuddy  out; 
But  I  never  did  'ave  no  use  for  the  beggars,  though 

why  I  can  'ardly  say, 
An'  I  always  used  to  'ammer  'em  good,  which  I'm 

glad  to  'ave  done  to-day! 
#***## 

"An*  I  wish  I  may  lie  where  the  lost  ships  lie  that 

never  mounted  a  gun, 
Them  as  was  raked  with  shrapnel  fire — they  could 

neither  fight  nor  run; 
Them  as  spread  the  sea  with  their  dead  when  the 

day  was  sunny  and  fine, 
Or  went  down  slow  as  the  dark  come  on,  with  their 

guts  ripped  out  by  a  mine. 

"I  wish  I  may  lie  where  them  ships  lie,  the  little 

ships  an'  big, 
Liner  an'  tank  an'  leaky  tramp,  barge  an'  schooner 

an*  brig, 


SQUAREHEADS 


The  smacks  an'  Frenchy  onion  boats,  an'  the  poor 

crews  they  bore, 
Murdered  in  sight  of  open  day  by  square'eads  makin* 


war! 


"I  wish  I  may  lie  where  them  ships  lie,  an'  no  more 

sail  the  sea, 
An'  drink  the  drink  them  dead  men  drank,  poor 

sailormen  like  me, — 

So  let  me  drink  if  I  forget,  an'  so  for  ever  lie, 
If  ever  I  ship  with  square'eads  more  until  the  day 

I  die. 

"An'  if  ever  I  take  a  German's  pay  again,  in  steam 

or  sail, 
Or  'andle  German  cargo  more,  baulk  or  barrel  or 

bale, 

If  ever  I  put  a  finger  o'  mine  on  stuff  a  German  owns, 
Or  'elp  to  fill  a  German  till  with  workin'  o'  my  bones, 

"If  ever  I  risk  this  life  o'  mine,  as  I  'ave  done  before, 
To  bring  some  Bremen  merchant  'ome  'is  nitrates  or 

'is  ore, 
I  wish  I  may  dream  o'  nothin'  but  sinkin'  ships  an' 

drownin'   men, 
An'  wake  out  o'  the  dream,  an*  sleep,  an'  dream  it 

all  again, — 

—23— 


SMALL  CRAFT 


"Dead  bodies  liftin'  on  the  swell, — strong  seamen 

once  like  me, — 
An5  fellers  wounded,  freezin'  to  death  in  open  boats 

at  sea, — 
Babies,  an'  girls  with  long  wet  hair,  an'  mothers  mad 

with  woe, 
The  devil's   job — the  square'eads'  job — I   seen  it 

an'  I  know! 

"I  never  did  'ave  no  use  for  Germans — an'  when  this 

war  is  done, 
There  may  be  those  that  will  forget — well,  I  shall 

not  be  one! 
And  by  them  ships  I  pass  my  word — an'  by  them 

souls  I  swear — 
There'll  be  'ot  times  in  sailor-town  when  I  meet  a 

square'ead  there  i" 


—24— 


THE  NORTH  ATLANTIC  TRADE 

As  I  was  walking  beside  the  docks  I  met  a  pal  of 

mine 
I  sailed  with  once  on  the  Colonies'  run  in  Thomson's 

White  Star  Line; 
Said  I:  "What  cheer — what  brings  you  here?" — 

"Why,  'aven't  you  'eard,"  he  said. 
"I'm  under  the  Windsor  'ouse  flag  now  in  the  North 

Atlantic  trade. 
We  sweep  a  bit  an'  we  fight  a  bit  (an'  that's  what 

we  like  the  best), 
But  a  towin'  job  or  a  salvage  job,  it  all  goes  in  wi' 

the  rest; 
When  we  aren't  too  busy  upsettin'  old  Fritz  an'  his 

frightfulness  blockade, 
A  bit  of  all  sorts  don't  come  amiss  in  the  North, 

Atlantic   trade." 

"And  how  does  old  Atlantic  look?"    "Oh,  round  an* 

about  the  same; 
'E  'asn't  seemed  to  alter  a  lot  since  I've  been  in  the 

game; 

—25— 


SMALL  CRAFT 


'E's  about  as  big  as  'e  always  was,  an*  Vs  pretty 

well  just  as  wet 
(Or  if  there's  some  parts  drier  5n  the  rest,  well, 

I  'aven't  struck  none  yet!) 
There's  the  same  old  bust-up,  same  old  mess  when 

a  green  sea  breaks  inboard, 
An*  the  equinoctials  roarin'  by  the  same  as  they've 

always  roared; 
An*  the  west  wind  playin'  the  same  old  larks  Vs 

been  at  since  the  world  was  made, 
They've  a  peach  of  a  time,  'ave  sailormen  in  the 

North  Atlantic  trade." 


"And  who's   your  skipper  and  what  is   he  like?" 

"Oh,  well,  if  you  want  to  know, 
I'm  sailin'  under  a  hard-case  mate  as  I  sailed  with 

years  ago; 
He's  big  an'  bucko  an'  full  o'  beans,  the  same  as  he 

used  to  be 
When  I  knowed  'im  last  in  the  windbag  days  when 

first  I  followed  the  sea. 
'E  was  worth  two  men  at  the  lee  for  brace,  an'  three 

at  the  bunt  of  a  sail, 
'E'd  a  voice  you  could  'ear  to  the  royal  yards  in  the 

teeth  of  a  Cape  'Orn  gale; 


THE  NORTH  ATLANTIC  TRADE 


But  now  Vs  a  full-blown  lootenant  an*  wears  the 

twisted  braid, 
Commandin'  one  of  'is  Majesty's  ships  in  the  North 

Atlantic  trade." 


"And  what  is  the  ship  you're  sailin'  in?" — "Oh  she's 

a  bit  of  a  terror, 
She  ain't  no  bloorain'  lewyathan,  an'  that's  no  fatal 

error ; 
She  scoops  the  seas  like  a  gravy  spoon  when  the 

winds  are  up  an'  blowin', 
But  Fritz  he  loves  'er  above  a  bit  when  'er  fightin' 

fangs  are  showin'! 
The  liners  go  their  'aughty  way,  and  the  cruisers 

take  their  ease, 
But  where  would  they  be  if  it  wasn't  for  us,  with  the 

water  up  to  our  knees? 
We're  wadin'  when  their  soles  are  wet,  we're  swim- 

min'  when  they  wade, — 
Oh,  I  tell  you  small  craft  gets  it  a  treat  in  the  North 

Atlantic  trade." 

"And  what  is  the  port  you're  plyin*  to?" — "When 

the  last  long  trick  is  done 
There'll  some  come  back  to  the  old  'ome  port — 

'ere's  'opin'  I'll  be  one! — 

07 

/v  I 


SMALL  CRAFT 


But  some'll  'ave  made  a  new  landfall  an'  sighted  an- 
other shore, 

An*  it  ain't  no  use  to  watch  for  them,  for  they  won't 
come  'ome  no  more: 

There  ain't  no  'arbour  dues  to  pay  when  once  they're 
over  the  bar, 

Moored  bow  an'  stern  in  a  quiet  berth  where  the 
lost  three-deckers  are: 

An'  there's  Nelson  'oldin'  'is  one  'and  out,  an'  wel- 
comin'  them  that's  made 

The  roads  o'  Glory  an'  the  port  o*  Death  in  the 
North  Atlantic  trade." 


—28— 


ADMIRAL  DUGOUT 

HE  had  done  with  fleets  and  squadrons,  with  the 

restless,  roaming  seas, 
He  had  found  the  quiet  haven  he  desired, 
And  he  lay  there  to  his  moorings  with  the  dignity 

and  ease 

Most  becoming  to  Rear-Admirals  (retired). 
He  was  reared  'mid  "Spit  and  Polish,"  he  was  bred 

to  "stick  and  string" — 

All  the  things  the  ultra-moderns  never  name ; 
But  a  wind  blew  up  to  seaward,  and  it  meant  the 

Real  Thing, 
And  he  had  to  slip  his  cable  when  it  came. 

So  he  hied  him  up  to  London,  for  to  hang  about 

Whitehall, 

And  he  sat  upon  the  steps  there  soon  and  late; 
He  importuned  night  and  morning,  he  bombardeid 

great  and  small, 

From  messengers  to  Ministers  of  State. 
He  was  like  a  guilty  conscience,  he  was  like  a  ghost 
unlaid, 

He  was  like  a  debt  of  which  you  can't  get  rid, 

oq 

/Wt7 


SMALL  CRAFT 


Till  the  Powers  that  Be,  despairing,  in  a  fit  of  tem- 
per said, 

"For  the  Lord's  sake  give  him  something" — and 
they  did! 


They  commissioned  him  a  trawler  with'' a  high  and 

raking  bow, 

Black  and  workmanlike  as  any  pirate  craft, 
With  a  crew  of  steady  seamen  very  handy  in  a  row, 

And  a  brace  of  little  barkers  fore  and  aft. 
And  he  blessed  the  Lord  his  Maker  when  he  faced 

the  North  Sea  sprays, 
And  exceedingly  extolled  his  lucky  star, 
That  had  given  his  youth  renewal  in  the  evening  of 

his  days, 
(With  the  rank  of  Captain  Dugout,  R.N.R.) 


He  is  jolly  as  a  sandboy,  he  is  happier  than  a  king, 

And  his  trawler  is  the  darling  of  his  heart, 
(With  her  cuddy  like  a  cupboard  where  a  kitten 

couldn't    swing, 

And  a  scent  of  fish  that  simply  won't  depart). 
He  has  found  upon  occasion  sundry  targets  for  his 

guns, 

He  could  tell  you  tales  of  mine  and  submarine ; 
—30— 


ADMIRAL  DUGOUT 


Oh,  the  holes  he's  in  and  out  of,  and  the  glorious 

risks  he  runs 

Turn  his  son   (who's  in  a  Super-Dreadnought) 
green. 

He   is   fit    as    any   fiddle,   he   is   hearty,   hale   and 

tanned, 

He  is  proof  against  the  coldest  gales  that  blow, 
He  has  never  felt  so  lively  since  he  got  his  first  com- 
mand, 

(Which  is  rather  more  than  forty  years  ago). 
And  of  all  the  joyful  picnics  of  his  wild  and  wander- 
ing youth, 

Little  dust-ups  'tween  Taku  and  Zanzibar, 
There  was  none  to  match  the  picnic,  he  declares  in 

sober  sooth, 
That  he  has  as  Captain  Dugout,  R.N.R. 


"SHIPS  THAT  PASS": 

AN    EPISODE   OF    THE    CRUISER    PATROL. 

THERE  are  ships  that  pass  in  the  night-time,  some 

poet  has  told  us  how, 
But  a  ship  that  passed  in  the  day-time  is  the  one 

I'm  thinking  of  now, 
Where  the  seas  roll  green  from  the  Arctic  and  the 

wind  comes  keen  from  the  Pole, 
'Tween  Rockall  Bank  and  the  Shetlands,  up  North 

on  the  long  patrol. 


We  sighted  her  one  clay  early;  the  forenoon  watch 

was  begun, 
There  was  mist  like  wool  on  the  water,  and  a  glimpse 

of  a  pale  cold  sun, 
And  she  came  through  the  dim  grey  weather — a 

thing  of  wonder  and  gleam, 
From  the  port  o'  the  Past  on  a  bowline,  close-hauled 

on  a  wind  of  dream. 
—32— 


"SHIPS  THAT  PASS" 


The  rust  of  years  was  upon  her — she  was  weathered 

by  many  a  gale — 
The  flag  of  a  Dago  republic  went  up  to  her  peak  at 

our  hail; 
But  I  knew  her — Lord  God!  I  knew  her,  as  how 

could  I  help  but  know 
The  ship  that  I  served  my  time  in,  no  matter  how 

long  ago! 

I'd  have  climbed  to  her  royals  blindfold,  I'd  have 

known  her  spars  in  a  crowd; 
Aloft  and  alow,  I  knew  her,  brace  and  halliard  and 

shroud — 
From  the  scroll-work  under  her  stern-ports  to  the 

paint  on  her  figure-head — 
And  the  shout,  "All  hands,"  on  her  maindeck  would 

have  tumbled  me  up  from  the  dead. 

She  moved  like  a  queen  on  the  water,  with  the  grace 

that  was  hers  of  yore, 
The  sun  on  her  shining  canvas — what  had  she  to  do 

with  war, 
With  a  world  that  is  full  of  trouble  and  seas  that 

are  stained  with  crime? 
She  came  like  a  dream  remembered,  dreamt  once  in 

a  happier  time. 

—33— 


SMALL  CRAFT 


She  was  youth,  and  its  sorrow  that  passes — the  light, 
the  laughter,  the  joy, 

The  South,  and  the  small  white  cities,  and  the  care- 
free heart  of  a  boy, 

The  farewell  flash  of  the  Fastnet  to  light  you  the 
whole  world  round, 

And  the  hoot  of  the  tug  at  parting — and  the  song 
of  the  homeward  bound. 

The  sun,  and  the  flying-fish  weather — night,  and  a 

fiddle's  tune — 
And  palms,  and  the  warm  maize-yellow  of   a  low 

West  Indian  moon — 
Storm  in  the  high  South  latitudes — and  the  boom 

of  a  Trade-filled  sail — 
And  the  anchor  watch  in  the  tropics,  and  the  old 

Sou*   Spainer's   tale. 

Was  it  the  lap  of  the  wave  I  heard  or  the  chill  wind's 

cry, 
Or  a  snatch  of  a  deep-sea  chantey  I  knew  in  the 

years  gone  by? 
Was  it  the  whine  of  the  gear  in  the  sheaves,  or  the 

seagulls'   call, 
Or  the  ghost  of  my  shipmates'  voices,  tallying  on 

to  the  fall? 

****** 
—34— 


"SHIPS  THAT  PASS" 


I  went  through  her  papers  duly — and  no  one,  I 
hope,  could  see 

A  freight  of  the  years  departed  was  the  cargo  she 
bore  for  me! 

I  talked  with  her  Dago  captain  while  we  searched 
her  for  contraband, 

And  ...  I  longed  for  one  grip  of  her  wheel- 
spokes  like  a  grip  of  a  friend's  right  hand. 

And  I  watched  while  her  helm  went  over,  and  the 

sails  were  sheeted  home, 
And  under  her  moving  forefoot  the  bubbles  broke 

into  foam, 
Till  she  faded  from  sight  in  the  greyness — a  thing 

of  wonder  and  gleam, 
For  the  port  of  the  Past  on  a  bowline — closehauled 

on  a  wind  of  dream! 


"IN  PRIZED 

A  SHIP  was  built  in  Glasgow,  and  oh,  she  looked  a 
daisy — 

(Just  the  way  that  some  ships  do!) 
An'  the  only  thing  against  'er  was  she  allus  steered 
so  crazy 

(An*  it's  true,  my  Johnnie  Bowline,  true !) 


They  sent  'er  out  in  ballast  to  Oregon  for  lumber, 
An*  before  she  dropped  'er  pilot  she  all  but  lost  'er 
number. 


They  sold  'er  into  Norway  because  she  steered  so 

funny, 
An'  she  nearly  went  to  glory  before  they  drawed 

the  money. 


They  sold  'er  out  o'  Norway — they  sold  'er  into 

Chile, 
An'  Chile  got  a  bargain  because  she  steered  so  silly. 


"IN  PRIZE" 


They   chartered  'er  to  Germans  with   a  bunch  o' 

greasers  forrard; 
Old  shellbacks  wouldn't  touch  'er  because  she  steered 

so  'orrid. 


She  set  a  course  for  Bremen  with  contraband  in- 
side 'er, 

An'  she  might  'ave  got  there  sometime  if  a  cruiser 
'adn't  spied  er. 


She  nearly  drowned  the  boarder's  because  she  cut 

such  capers, 
But  they  found  she  was  a  German  through  inspectin' 

of  her  papers. 


So  they  put  a  crew  on  board  'er,  which  was  both 

right  an'  lawful, 
An'  the  prize  crew  'ad  a  picnic  because  she  steered 

so  awful. 


But  they  brought  'er  into  Kirkwall,  an'  then  they 

said,  "Lord  lumme 

If  I  ever  see  an  'ooker  as  steered  so  kind  o'  rummy !" 

—37— 


SMALL  CRAFT 


But  she'll  fetch  her  price  at  auction,  for  oh,  she 
looks  a  daisy. 

(Just  the  way  that  some  ships  do!) 
An*  the  chap  as  tops  the  biddin*  won't  know  she 
steers  so  crazy 

(But  it's  true,  my  Johnnie  Bowline,  true!) 


—38— 


As  I  looked  over  the  water — as  I  looked  over  the 
foam, 

I  saw  an  old-time  packet-ship  come  cheerily  plung- 
ing home; 

I  saw  the  holes  in  her  riddled  sails,  and  the  shine  of 
a  little  brass  gun 

On  either  side  of  her  battered  poop  in  the  light  of 
the  westering  sun. 


I  hailed  her  over  the  water,  I  hailed  her  over  the 

tide: 
"What  news  of  war  down  Channel,  what  news  from 

the  ocean  wide?" 
And  from  her  shadowy  bulwarks  a  shadowy  voice 

replied : 
"Oh,  homeward  from  the  Indies  bound,  abeam  of 

Tuskar  light, 
We  met  a  saucy  privateer — she  bade  us  strike  or 

fight; 


SMALL  CRAFT 


And  we  sent  her  home  with  a  pain  in  her  ribs,  and 

her  maintopmast  shot  down, 
To  1'arn  her  to  meddle  with  his  Majesty's  mails, 

bound  home  to  Falmouth  town!" 


(Frigate  or  sloop  or  chasse-maree,  let  'em  bang  us 

if  they  can, 
They  will  maybe  find  not  much  to  their  mind  in  a 

fighting  merchantman!) 


As  I  looked  over  the  water,  as  I  looked  over  the 
foam, 

I  there  did  see  a  ship's  longboat  come  wearily  labour- 
ing home; 

I  saw  the  crew  bend  to  their  oars,  like  tired  men  they 
rowed, 

As  gunwale  deep  in  the  sunset  tide  she  wallowed  with 
her  load. 


I  hailed  her  over  the  water,  I  hailed  her  over  the 

tide: 
"What  news  of  war  down  Channel,  what  news  from 

the  ocean  wide?" 
And  in  her  stern  sheets  standing,  a  bull-voiced  mate 

replied : 
—40— 


THE  FIGHTING  MERCHANTMAN 


"Oh,  homeward  bound  from  the  River  Plate,  abeam 
of  Tuskar  light, 

We  met  a  pirate  submarine  at  the  coming  on  of 
night, 

She  knew  her  game  was  safe  to  play,  as  safe  'twill 
be  again 

When  the  game  is  not  with  fighting  craft,  but  peace- 
ful merchantmen. 

"They  raked  us  first  with  shrapnel  fire  above  deck 

and  below, 
They  slipped  a  tin-fish  into  our  bilge  and  left  us 

sinking  slow; 
We  left  our  skipper  on  the  bridge  with  a  bullet  in 

his  head; 
We've  our  wounded  here  in  the  boat's  bottom,  and 

most  by  now  are  dead. 

"Our  foes,  they  say,  when  war  is  done,  shall  pay  us 

ton  for  ton ; 
But  better  now  is  shot  for  shot  and  gun  to  answer 

gun; 
Give   England's   ships   their  fighting  chance — then 

let  him  catch  who  can, 
He  will  maybe   find   not   much  to  his   mind  in   a 

fighting  merchantman!" 

—41— 


"Oo  seen  her  off?"   .    .    . 

"Me,"  says  the  tide, 

"I  'ad  to,  for  why,  there  was  no  one  beside; 
For  sailor-folks'  women,  they're  busy  enough, 
"Thout  'angin'  round  pier-'eds  to  see  their  chaps  off. 
The  gulls  all  about  'er  they  wrangled  an'  cried, 
An'  I  seen  'er  off,"  says  the  Liverpool  tide. 


"Oo  waved  'er  good-bye?"  .    .   ,. 

"Me,"  says  old  Tuskar, 
"When  the  sun  it  went  down  an'  the  light  it  got 

dusker, 

(With  a  sea  gettin'  up  an'  the  wind  blowin'  keen), 
An'  the  smoke  of  'er  funnels  could  'ardly  be  seen, 
An'  the  last  of  the  sunset  was  red  in  the  sky   .    .    . 
With  the  first  of  my  flashes  I  waved  'er  good-bye." 


"Oo  seen  'er  sink?"  .    .    . 

"Me,"  says  the  sun, 

"At  the  top  o*  my  climbin'  I  seen  the  thing  done  ,.:  t., 
—42 — 


BILLY'S  YARN 


I  seen  'er  'eave  to,  an'  I  seen  'er  'ull  shiver, 
Settle,  an*  stumble,  an'  tremble,  an'  quiver, 
An'  'er  stern  it  went  up,  an'  'er  bow  it  went  down, 
An*  the  most  of  'er  people  they  just  'ad  to  drown, 
An'  I'd  never  a  cloud  for  to  shut  out  the  sight, 
So  I  seen  'er  sink,"  says  the  sun  in  'is  might. 

"Oo  seen  the  last  of  'er?"   ... 

"Us,"  says  the  crew, 
All  that  was  left  out  o*  twenty-and-two, 
"We  seen  the  last  of  'er — floatin'  around 
On  a  bottom-up  boat  among  dead  uns  an'  drowned — 
We  seen  'er  waterways  runnin'  with  blood — 
We  seen  poor  mates  of  ours  shot  where  they  stood — 
But  them  chaps  as  done  it,  I  tell  you  now  true, 
They  ain't  seen  the  last  of  us  yet,"  says  the  crew, 
"No,  you  bet  your  sweet  life,"  says  what's  left  o'  the 
crew. 


—43— 


PHILOSOPHY 


I 


"LAST  night  in  the  Baltic  Tavern  tap 
I  met,"  Mike  said,  "a  longshore  chap 
And  said,  'Don't  sailorin'  look  queer 
With  all  them  mines  an'  suchlike  gear? 
If  I  was  you,'  'e  says,  says  'e, 
'I'd  take  a  shore  job  same  as  me, 
An*  leave  this  trouble  that's  around 
For  them  that's  fond  o'  gettin'  drowned.' 

"  'No,  no,'  I  says,  'I  ain't  a-givin' 

It  up  for  any  square'ead  livin', 

The  way  I  puts  it  in  my  'ead 

Is — no  man's  done  until  'e's  dead, 

An'  if  it  comes  to  dyin',  sure, 

A  man  dies  once,  an'  then  no  more.' 

"I  says,  'When  ships  'as  left  off  goin', 
An'  grass  on  London  docks  is  growin', 
(The  same's  it  is,  so  I've  'card  say, 
On  all  them  'Amburg  wharves  this  day), 

—44— 


PHILOSOPHY 


When  Lloyd's  is  broke  an'  on  their  uppers, 
An'  all  the  owners  in  the  scuppers, 
Why,  then,'  I  says,  *I  might  be  lookin* 
For  a  job  o'  cartin'  coals,  or  cookin', 

Or  washin'  pots,  or  sellin'  tapes, 
Or  leadin'  bears,  or  learnin'  apes, 
But  since,  as  I  'ear  tell,  so  far 
There's  ships  still  passin'  Mersey  Bar, 
An'  one  or  two  comes  in  each  day 
To  London  Docks,  so  I've  'card  say, 
An'  ships  can't  sail  without  no  crew, — 
So  long  as  they  sail,  I  sail  too. 

"  'If  you,  young  man,  'ad  follered  the  sea 

Your  'ole  life  long,  the  same  as  me, 

'Ad  knowed  it  wakin'  an'  asleep, 

An'  seen  God's  wonders  in  the  deep, 

I  guess  you'd  not  be  rattled  much 

By  mines  or  submarines  or  such, 

Or  care  a  bloomin'  finger  snap 

For  no  fool  Kaiser  or  such  chap.   .    .   > 

"  'Besides,'  I  says,  'when  all  is  said, 

Just  think  o'  them  poor  chaps  that's  dead — 

Poor  pals  o'  mine  as  'ad  to  die — 

They  took  their  chances   .    .    .   so  do  I !'  " 

—45- 


THE  BALLAD  OF  THE  "DINKINBAR" 

IT  was  the  steamship  "Dinkinbar," 

From  the  Gulf  of  Mexico 
For  Liverpool  in  time  of  war 

With  a  thousand  mules  below, 
And  a  bunch  of  polyglot  muleteers 

To  tend  on  them  also. 

A  swarthy  breed  from  Eagle  Butte, 

And  a  greaser  from  Brazil, 
And  Daly  of  the  broken  nose, 

And  Ike,  and  Texas  Bill, 

In  divers  tongues  that  yarned  and  swore 

And  wrangled  o'er  their  play, 
As  they  dealt  their  decks  of  greasy  cards 

To  pass  the  hours  away, 

And  talked  of  how  to  burn  good  pay 

And  play  the  blooming  fool 
Among  the  wenches  and  the  sharks 

In  the  port  of  Liverpool. 

—46— 


THE  BALLAD  OF  THE  "DINKINBAR" 

But  Texas  Bill  a  bitter  laugh 

He'd  laugh  and  shake  his  head: 
"It's  me  for  a  new  style  jamboree 

When  I  strike  land,"  he  said. 

"My  brother  lies  in  deep  water 

Not  over  far  from  here, 
Where  a  U-boat  sank  both  ship  and  men, 

A  bit  beyond  Cape  Clear. 

"They  left  him  to  drown  with  his  drownin'  mules 

In  the  light  of  open  day, 
An'  I  guess  I'll  not  sleep  easy  o'  nights 

While  that  score's  yet  to  pay. 

"So  I'm  goin'  in  for  a  khaki  suit 

When  I  get  in  from  cea, 
I  kin  shift  my  birthplace  north  o*  the  line 

As  handy  as  kin  be, 
An'   ...   I  guess  there'll  sure  be  a  fightin'  job 

For  a  big  long  thing  like  me !" 

****** 

It  was  the  steamship  "Dinkinbar," 

At  the  stormy  end  o'  the  year 
That  came  in  sight  of  the  Bull  and  Cow 

Which  are  beside  Cape  Clear. 

—47— 


SMALL  CRAFT 


And  soon  as  rang  the  lookout's  cry 

That  hailed  the  sight  of  land, 
Oh,  they  were  aware  of  a  U-boat  there 
signalled  them  to  stand. 


She  fired  a  shot  across  their  hawse 

And  they  had  to  heave  to  them, 
For  she  could  make  her  fifteen  knots, 

And  the  "Dinkinbar"  but  ten, 
And  she  had  her  machine  gun  ready  to  fire 

On  all  but  unarmed  men. 

Her  captain  he  came  over  the  side, 

A  cold-eyed  swaggering  Hun 
That  wore  the  Iron  Cross  on  his  breast 

To  tell  of  murders  done,  — 

And  his  squarehead  crew  brought  up  their  bombs 

To  send  the  ship  below 
With  the  poor  living  things  she  bore 

That  knew  not  friend  from  foe. 

It  was  a  British  ship  of  war 

Was  swiftly  drawing  near, 
For  she  had  word  of  a  submarine 

Was  lurking  off  Cape  Clear. 

—48— 


THE  BALLAD  OF  THE  "DINKINBAR" 

She  came  from  the  South  with  a  bone  in  her  mouth, 

Her  shot  sang  over  the  sea, 
And  straight  for  the  pirate's  conning  tower 

It  sped  like  a  hiving  bee, 
It  struck — it  smashed  it  like  a  shell — 

That  down  like  a  stone  went  she. 

Then  the  pirate  captain  ran  to  the  rail 

To  signal  to  his  crew, 
But  all  he  saw  was  a  smear  of  oil 

On  the  water's  face  that  grew. 

And  first  he  swore  and  gnawed  his  lip, 

And  glanced  around  in  fear, 
Till  a  thought  came  into  his  mind  again 

That  brought  him  better  cheer. 

"Are  not  the  English  easy  folk 

With  pirates  ta'en  in  war? 
And  my  luck  is  good  that  safe  I  stand 

On  the  deck  of  the  'Dinkinbar.'  " 

He  turned — he  saw  the  muleteers 

Come  surging  from  below, 
(Like  a  rustlers'  crowd  you  see  on  the  screen 

At  a  moving  picture  show). 

—49— 


SMALL  CRAFT 


And  once  he  looked  on  Texas  Bill, 

And  then  he  turned  and  ran, 
For  the  look  he  saw  it  was  not  good 

To  see  on  the  face  of  man. 

Then  in  and  out  among  the  boats, 

By  hatch  and  alleyway, 
Hunter  and  hunted,  to  and  fro 

In  deadly  chase  sped  they. 

And  through  the  engine-room  where  stilled 

Was  now  the  engine's  clang, 
On  steel  ladder  and  steel  grating 

Their  footsteps  slipped  and  rang, 

Till  in  the  screw  shaft's  stifling  dark, 
With  spent  and  gasping  breath 

The  U-boat's  captain  turned  at  last 
To  pay  his  dues  to  death,    .    .    . 

And  twice  Bill  lifted  his  hand  to  strike, 

And  twice  he  turned  aside, 
But  his  brother's  blood  it  called  so  loud 

It  would  not  be  denied, 
And  down  in  the  dark  (like  those  he  slew) 

The  U-boat's  captain  died. 

—50— 


THE  BALLAD  OF  THE  "DINKINBAR" 

The  cruiser's  boat  came  under  the  side, 

They  hailed  her  with  a  cheer, 
And  Texas  Bill  looked  over  the  rail 

And  called  both  loud  and  clear, 
"Come  up,  come  up,  now,  Lootenant, 

But  you'll  find  no  prisoner  here. 

"For  Texas  law  is  life  for  life 

Alike  in  peace  and  war, 
And  life  for  life  has  paid  this  day 

On  board  o'  the  'Dinkinbar.'  ** 


GOOD  LUCK 

THE  hour  was  near  for  starting 

Ere  Vimy  ridge  was  won, 
And  we  said  "Good  luck"  at  parting 
As  we  had  often  done 
In  folly,  sport  or  fun. 

(For  love  and  pride  and  passion 
With  speech  accord  but  ill, 

And  if  we  had  skill  to  fashion 

Brave  words  to  speak  our  fill, 
We  should  be  speaking  still). 

All  dreams  men  strive  and  sigh  for, 

Or  lose  beyond  recall, 
The  things  men  live  and  die  for, 

The  great  things  and  the  small 
Our  "Good  luck"  meant  them  all. 

"To  each  his  dear  ambition 

As  unto  each  seems  best, 
Love's  crown  or  fate's  fruition, 

The  fame,  the  medalled  breast   . 

And  to  the  dead  their  rest !" 
—62— 


THE  DEFAULTER 

THE   regimental  jackdaw   'as   a  bright   an*   beady 

eye; 
'E  sits  upon  the  tent-pole  an*  *e  winks  both  bold  an* 

sly: 
*E  says:  "You  bloomin*  idiot,  you,  to  go  an*  get 

C.B.  !'* 
An*  I  wish  I  was  the  jackdaw,  an*  I  wish  that  *e  was 

me! 

The  regimental  jackdaw,  *e  is  like  a  bloomin'  lord, 
'E  'ops  it  when  'e  thinks  *e  will,  an'  no  one  speaks  a 

word: 
'E  takes  'is  'ook  without  no  pass,  *e  don't  come  *ome 

to  tea, 
An*  I  wish  I  was  the  jackdaw,  an*  I  wish  that  e*  was 

me! 

The  regimental  jackdaw,  'e  can  always  speak  'is 

mind: 
'E  tells  the  Colonel  what  'e  thinks  when  thus  'e 

feels  inclined, 


SMALL  CRAFT 


'E  sauces  of  the  Adjutant  as  'andy  as  can  be, 
An'  I  wish  I  was  the  j  ackdaw,  an*  I  wish  that  'e  was 
me! 

The  regimental  jackdaw,  'e  *s  the  j  oiliest  thing  I've 

seen, 

'E  'as  no  pack  to  carry  an'  'e  'as  no  pipe  to  clean, 
'E  's  breakin'  rules  the  'ole  day  long  an'  never  gets 

C.B.— 
An'  I  wish  I  was  the  jackdaw,  an'  I  wish  that  'e 

was  me! 


—54— 


THE  LITTLE  THINGS 

I  USED  to  be  a  peaceful  chap  as  didn't  ask  for 
trouble, 

An*  as  for  rows  an*  fightin',  why,  I'd  mostly  rather 

not, 
But  now  I'd  charge  an  army  single-'anded  at  the 

double, 

An'  it's  all  along  o'  little  things  I've  learned  to 
feel  so  'ot. 

It's  'orrid  seein'  burnin'  farms,  which  I  *ave  often 

seen  'ere, 
An'  fields  all  stinks  an'  shell-'oles,  an'  the  dead 

among  the  flowers, 
But  the  thing  I've  'ated  seein'  all  the  bloomin'  time 

I've  been  'ere 

Is   the  little   gardens    rooted  up — the  same  as 
might  be  ours. 

It's  bad  to  see  the  chattos — which  means  castles — 

gone  to  ruins, 

Anr  big  cathedrals  knocked  to  bits  as  used  to 
look  that  fine, 

—65— 


SMALL  CRAFT 


But  what  puts  me  in  a  paddy  more  than  all  them 

sort  o'  doin's 

Is  the  little  'ouses  all  in  'caps — the  same  as  might 
be  mine. 

An'  when  the  what's-it  line  is  bust  an*  we  go  rompin' 

through  it, 
An'  knock  the  lid  off  Potsdam  an'  the  Kaiser  off 

'is  throne, 
Why,  what'll  get  our  monkey  up  an'  give  us  'eart 

to  do  it? 
Just  thinkin'  o'  them  little  things  as  might  have 

been  our  own, 
(An'  most  of  all  the  little  kids  as  might  'ave  been 

our  own!) 


—56— 


THE  SONG  OF  THE  MILL 

As  by  the  pool  I  wandered  that  lies  so  clear  and  still 
With  tall  old  trees  about  it,  hard  by  the  silent  mill 
Whose  ancient  oaken  timbers  no  longer  creak  and 

groan 
With  the  roar  of  wheel  and  water,  and  grind  of  stone 

on  stone. 


The  idle  mill-race  slumbered  beneath  the  mouldering 

wheel, 
The  pale  March  sunlight  gilded  no  motes  of  floating 

meal, 
But  the  stream  went  singing  onward,  went  singing 

by  the  weir — 
And  this,  or  something  like  it,  was  the  song  I  seemed 

to  hear: — 


"By  Teviot,  Tees  and  Avon,  by  Esk  and  Ure  and 

Tweed, 
Here's  many  a  trusty  henchman  would  rally  to  your 

need; 

—57— 


SMALL  CRAFT 


By  Itchen,  Test  and  Waveney,  by  Tamar,  Trent 

and  Ouse, 
Here's  many  a  loval  servant  will  help  you  if  you 

choose. 


"Do  they  no  longer  need  us  who  needed  us  of  yore? 
We  stood  not  still  aforetime  when  England  marched 

to  war; 
Like  those  our  wind-driven  brothers,  far  seen  o'er 

weald  and  fen, 
We  ground   the  wheat   and  barley  to   feed  stout 

Englishmen. 

"You  call  the  men  of  England,  their  strength,  their 

toil,  their  gold, 
But  us  you  have  not  summoned,  who  served  your 

sires  of  old; 
For  service  high  or  humble,  for  tribute  great  and 

small, 
You  call  them  and  they  answer — but  us  you  do  not 

call. 


"Yet  we  no  hoarded  fuel  of  mine  or  well  require, 
That  drive  your  fleets  to  battle  or  light  the  poor 

man's  fire; 
—58— 


THE  SONG  OF  THE  MILL 


We  need  no  white-hot  furnace  for  tending  night  and 

day, 
No  power  of  harnessed  lightnings  to  speed  us  on 

our  way. 

"By  Tavy,  Dart  and  Derwent,  by  Wharf e  and  Usk 

and  Nidd, 
Here's  many  a  trusty  vassal  is  yours  when  you  shall 

bid, 
With  the  strength  of  English  rivers  to  push  the 

wheels  along, 
And  the  roar  of  many  a  mill-race  to  join  the  victory 

song." 


THE  FIVE  RICKS 

FIVE  ricks  in  a  row 

Stand  in  my  father's  field,  I  know, 

Five  ricks  beside  the  hedge 

That  marks  the  long  field's  topmost  edge   . 

There  they  stand;  from  there  you  see 

Coppice,  cottage,  field  and  tree, 

The  shining  vane  on  the  church  steeple, 

And  houses  full  of  decent  people 

I've  known  since  I  was  a  little  chap, 

Good  folks  that  sometimes  say,  mayhap, 

"I  wonder,  now,  what  young  Jim's  doin* 

Out  there  in  all  that  noise  and  ruin"  .    .   a 

Five  ricks  in  a  row 
Stand  in  my  father's  field,  I  know, 
And  over  them  there's  a  blue  sky 
Where  small  white  clouds  go  floating  high, 
Like  shell-bursts  round  a  battle-plane   .    . 
But  night'll  come  and  the  light'll  wane, 
Bats'll  flit,  and  not  a  sound 
Be  heard  in  all  the  fields  around, 
—60-- 


THE  FIVE  RICKS 


But  a  hunting  owl,  and  a  little  breeze 
That  makes  a  rustling  in  the  trees. 
And  by  the  ricks  and  round  about 
The  lean  grey  rats  slip  in  and  out, 
Here  and  there  on  every  hand, 
Like  snipers  out  in  No  Man's  Land. 

If  times  was  what  times  used  to  be, 

What  sport  there  for  old  Vic  and  me ! 

The  same  old  girl,  the  same  old  dear, 

That's  been  my  pal  now  many  a  year, 

Since  first  I  bought  her,  one  Spring  fair, 

A  six  weeks'  pup  from  a  gipsy  there   .   ,.   ... 

But  now  she's  growing  old  and  grey 

At  home,  and  I  am  far  away, 

And  there  ain't  no  games  for  her,  I  reckon, 

Though  the  night  seems  just  about  to  beckon 

For  little  dogs  to  hunt  their  fill 

Of  rats  and  such-like  things  to  kill; 

And  so  Vic  shakes  herself,  and  sighs,  turns  three 

Times  round  and  down  she  lies, 

And  stretches  out  before  the  blaze 

Her  old  rheumatic  bones,  and  lays 

Between  her  paws  her  grizzled  head 

And  torn  ears,  waiting  for  my  tread. 


—61— 


BULLINGTON 

IT  was  in  the  high  midsummer,  and  the  sun  was  shin- 
ing strong, 

And  the  lane  was  rather  flinty,  and  the  lane  was 
rather  long, 

When — up  and  down  the  gentle  hills  beside  the  strip- 
ling Test — 

I  chanced  to  come  to  Bullington  and  stayed  a  while 
to  rest. 

It  was  drowned  in  peace  and  quiet,  as  the  river  reeds 
are  drowned 

In  the  water  clear  as  crystal,  flowing  by  with  scarce 
a  sound, 

And  the  air  was  like  a  posy  with  the  sweet  haymak- 
ing smells, 

And  the  roses  and  Sweet  Williams  and  Canterbury 
Bells. 

Far  away  as  some  strange  planet  seemed  the  old 

world's  dust  and  din, 
And  the  trout  in  sun-warmed  shallows  hardly  seemed 

to  stir  a  fin; 
—62— 


BULLINGTON 


And  there's  never  a  clock  to  tell  you  how  the  hur- 
rying world  goes  on 
In  the  little  ivied  steeple  down  in  drowsy  Bullington. 

Small  and  sleepy,  there  it  nestled,  seeming  far  from 

hastening  Time 
As  a  teeny-tiny  village  in  some  quaint  old  nursery 

rhyme ; 

And  a  teeny-tiny  river  by  a  teeny-tiny  weir 
Sang  a  teeny-tiny  ditty  that  I  stayed  awhile  to  hear. 

"Oh,  the  stream  runs  to  the  river,  and  the  river  to 

the  sea, 
But  the  reedy  banks  of  Bullington  are  good  enough 

for  me; 
Oh,  the  lane  runs  to  the  highway,  and  the  highway 

o'er  the  down, 
But  it's  better  here  in  Bullington  than  there  in 

London  town." 
Then  high  above  an  aeroplane  in  humming  flight 

went  by, 

With  the  droning  of  its  engines  filling  all  the  cloud- 
less sky, 
And  like  the  booming  of  a  knell  across  that  perfect 

day 
There  came  the  gun's  dull  thunder  from  the  ranges 

far  away. 

—63— 


SMALL  CRAFT 


And  while  I  lay  and  listened,  oh,  the  river's  sleepy 
tune 

Seemed  to  change  its  rippling  music,  like  the  cuck- 
oo's stave  in  June; 

And  the  cannon's  distant  thunder,  and  the  engine's 
war-like  drone 

Seemed  to  mingle  with  its  burthen  in  a  solemn 
undertone. 

"Oh,  the  stream  runs  to  the  river,  and  the  river  to 

the  sea, 
And  there's  war  on  land  and  water,  and  there's 

work  for  you  and  me ! 
And  on  many  a  field  of  glory  there  are  gallant  lives 

laid  down 
As    well    for   tiny    Bullington    as    mighty    London 

town!" 

i 

So  I  roused  me  from  my  daydream,  for  I  knew  the 

song  spoke  true 
That  it  isn't  time  for  dreaming  while  there's  duty 

still  to  do; 
And  I  turned  into  the  highway  where  it  meets  the 

flinty  lane, 
And  the  world  of  wars  and  sorrows  was  about  me 

ence  again. 

—64— 


THE  GIPSY  SOLDIER 

THE  gipsy  wife  came  to  my  door  with  pegs  and 

brooms  to  sell 
They  make  by  many  a  roadside  fire  and  many  a 

greenwood  dell, 
With  bee-skeps  and  with  baskets  wove  of  osier,  rush 

and  sedge, 
And  withies  from  the  river-bed  and  brambles  from 

the  hedge. 

With  her  stately  grace  like  Pharaoh's  queen  (for 

all  her  broken  shoon), 
You'd  marvel  one  so  proud  and  tall  should  ever 

ask  a  boon; 
But  "livin's  dear  for  us  poor  folk,"  and  "money 

can't  be  had," 
And  her  "man's  in  Mespotamia,"  and  "times  is  cruel 

bad." 

Yes,  times  is  cruel  bad,  we  know,  and  passing  strange 

also, 
And  it's  strange  as  anything  I've  heard  that  gipsy 

men  should  go 

—65— 


SMALL  CRAFT 


To  lands  through  which  their  forebears  trod  from 

some  unknown  abode 
The  way  that  ended  long  ago  upon  the  Portsmouth 

Road. 

I  wonder  if  the  Eastern  skies  and  Eastern  odours 
seem 

Familiar  to  that  gipsy  man  as  memories  of  a  dream ; 

Does  Tigris'  flow  stir  ancient  dreams  from  imme- 
morial rest 

Ere  ever  gipsy  poached  the  trout  of  Itchen  or  of 
Test? 

Does  something  in  him  seem  to  know  those  red  and 

arid  lands 
Where  dust   of   ancient   cities    sleeps   beneath   the 

drifted  sands? 
Do  Kurdish  girls  with  lustrous  eyes  beneath  their 

drooping  lids 
And  Eastern  babes  look  strangely  like  the  Missis 

and  the  kids? 

I  wonder  if  the  waving  palms,  when  desert  winds  do 

blow, 
In  their  dry  rustling  seem  to  sing  a  song  he  used  to 

know, 
—66— 


THE  GYPSY  SOLDIER 


Or  does  he  only  curse  the  heat,  and  wish  that  he 

were  laid 
Beneath  the  spread  of  Rufus'  oaks  or  Harewood's 

beechen  shade? 

Well,  luck  be  with  the  gipsy  man,  and  lead  him 
safely  home 

To  the  old  familiar  caravan  and  ways  he  used  to 
roam, 

And  bring  him,  as  it  brought  his  sires  from  their 
far  first  abode 

To  where  the  gipsy  camp-fires  burn  along  the  Ports- 
mouth Road. 


—67— 


MERCHANTMEN 

ALL  honour  be  to  merchantmen, 

And  ships  of  all  degree 
In  warlike  dangers  manifold 

Who  sail  and  keep  the  sea, — 
In  peril  of  unlitten  coast 

And  death-besprinkled  foam, 
Who  daily  dare  a  hundred  deaths 

To  bring  their  cargoes  home. 

A    liner    out    of    Liverpool — a    tanker    from    the 

Clyde— 
A  hard-run  tramp  from  anywhere — a  tug  from  Mer- 

seyside — 
A  cattle-boat  from  Birkenhead — a  coaler  from  the 

Tyne— 
All  honour  be  to  merchantmen  while  any  star  shall 

shine ! 

All  honour  be  to  merchantmen, 

And  ships  both  great  and  small, 
The  swift  and  strong  to  run  their  race, 

And  smite  their  foes  withal; 
—68— 


MERCHANTMEN 


The  little  ships  that  sink  or  swim, 

And  pay  the  pirates'  toll, 
Unarmoured  save  by  valiant  hearts 

And  strong  in  nought  but  soul. 

All  honour  be  to  merchantmen 

So  long  as  tides  shall  run, 
Who  gave  the  seas  their  glorious  dead 

From  rise  to  set  of  sun, — 
All  honour  be  to  merchantmen, 

While  England's  name  shall  stand, 
Who  sailed  and  fought,  and  dared  and  died, 

And  served  and  saved  their  land. 

A  sailing  ship  from  Liverpool — a  tanker  from  the 

Clyde- 
A  schooner  from  the  West  countrie — a  tug  from 

Merseyside — 
A  fishing  smack  from  Grimsby  town — a  coaler  from 

the  Tyne — 
All  honour  be  to  merchantmen  while  sun  and  moon 

do  shine! 


—69— 


THE  OPEN  BOAT 

WHEN  this  'ere  war  is  done   (says  Dan)    and  all 

the  fightin's  through, 
There's  some  will  pal  with  PVitz  again  as  they've 

been  used  to  do  .   .  . 
But  not  me  (says  Dan  the  sailorman),  not  me  (says 

he), 
Lord  knows  it's  nippy  in  an  open  boat  on  winter 

nights  at  sea! 

When  the  last  battle's  lost  an'  won,  an'  won  or 

lost  the  game, 
There's  some'll  think  no  'arm  to  drink  with  square- 

'eads  just  the  same, — 
But  not  me  (says  Dan  the  sailorman),  an'  if  you 

ask  me  why, 
Lord  knows  it's  thirsty  in  an  open  boat  when  the 

water  breaker's  dry ! 

When   all  the  bloomin'  mines   are  swep'   an'  ships 

are  sunk  no  more, 
There's  some'll  set  them  down  to  eat  with  Germans 

as  before, 
—70— 


THE  OPEN  BOAT 


But  not  me  (says  Dan  the  sailorman),  not  me  for 

one  .  .  . 
•Lord  knows  it's  'ungry  in  an  open  boat  when  the 

last  biscuit's  done! 

When  peace  is  signed  an'  treaties  made  an'  trade 

begins  again, 
There's   some'll  shake  a  German's  'and  and  never 

see  the  stain, 
But  not  me  (says  Dan  the  sailorman),  not  me,  as 

God's  on  high  .  .  . 
Lord  knows  it's  bitter  in  an  open  boat  to  see  your 

shipmates  die! 


THE  JOLLY  BARGEMAN 

I'VE  put   the   old  mare's   tail  in   plaits — now   ain't 

she  lookin'  gay, 
With  ribbons  in  'er  mane  likewise,  you'd  think  it 

First  o'  May; 
For  why?    We're  under  Government,  though  it  ain't 

quite  plain  to  me 
If  we're  in  the  Civil  Service  or  the  Admiralitee! 


An'  it's  "Gee  hup,  Mabel,"  an'  we'll  do  the  best 

we're  able, 
For  the  country's  took  us  over  an'  we're  'elpin'  'er 

to  win, 
An'  when  the  war  is  over,  oh,  we'll  all  lie  down  in 

clover, 
With  a  drink  all  together  at  the  Navigation  Inn! 


I  brought  the  news  to  Missis,  an'  to  'er  these  words 

did  say: 
"Just  chuck  yon  old  broom-'andle  an'  a  two-three 

nails  this  way: 


THE  JOLLY  BARGEMAN 


We're  bound  to  'ave  a  flag-staff  for  our  old  red, 
white  an'  blue, 

For  now  we're  under  Government  we'll  'ave  our  en- 
sign too." 

The  Navy  is  the  Navy,  an'  it  sails  upon  the  sea, 
The  Army  is  the  Army,  an'  on  land  it  'as  to  be ; 
There's  the  land  an'  there's  the  water,  an'  the  Cut 

comes  in  between, 
An'  I  don't  know  what  they'll  call  me  if  it  ain't 

an  'Orse  Marine. 

The  Missis  sits  upon  the  barge,  the  same's  she  used 
to  sit, 

But  they'll  'ave  'er  in  the  papers  now  for  Doin*  'er 
Bit: 

An'  I  walk  upon  the  tow-path  'ere  as  proud  as  any- 
thing, 

If  I  'aven't  got  no  uniform,  I'm  serving  of  the  King. 

An'  it's  "Gee  hup,  Mabel,"  oh,  we'll  do  the  best  we're 

able, 
For  the  country's  been  an'  called  us,  an'  we've  got  to 

'elp  to  win; 
An'  when  the  war  is  over,  then  we'll  all  lie  down  in 

clover, 

With  a  drink  all  together  at  the  Navigation  Inn! 

—73— 


"NEW  HEAVENS— NEW  EARTH": 
CHRISTMAS,  1916 

NIGH  Bethlehem  town  poor  shepherds  heard 
Beside  their  cotes  a  wondrous  word : 
"Nowell,  Nowell"  (the  song  did  pour), 
"Nowell,  Nowell,  from  shore  to  shore, 
Nowell,  Nowell,  the  whole  world  o'er, 
New  Heavens,  new  Earth,  for  evermore!" 

Is  this,  then,  all — earth's  countless  dead, 
Her  homes  whence  Christmas  joy  is  fled, 
Such  spilth  of  blood,  such  seas  of  tears — 
The  harvest  of  two  thousand  years? 
And  shall  the  War  Star's  blood-red  light 
Put  out  the  Star  of  Bethlehem  quite? 
The  cannon's  thunder  wholly  drown 
The  Angels*  song  nigh  Bethlehem  town? 

"Nowell,  Nowell,  from  shore  to  shore, 
For  ever  and  for  evermore !" 
You  Christmas  bells,  how  shall  you  ring? 
You  Christmas  choirs,  how  shall  you  sing, 

—74— 


'NEW  HEAVENS— NEW  EARTH":  CHRISTMAS,  1916 

When  bells  whose  praise  for  centuries  rung 
To  earth  in  molten  heaps  are  flung, 
And  shrill  the  heedless  bullet  sings 
By  altars  of  the  King  of  Kings, — 
How  shall  you  sing  as  oft  of  yore, 

"Nowell,  Nowell,  the  whole  world  o'er, 
New  Heavens,  new  Earth,  for  evermore?" 

Be  still,  O  doubting  heart,  recall 

How  but  through  Death  came  Life  for  all; 

The  road  was  trod  for  you  and  me 

From  Bethlehem— —even  to  Calvary: 

The  light  which  round  the  Manger  shone 

More  glorious  lit  the  rolled-back  stone. 

You  hero  souls,  rejoicing  bear 

Your  gold,  your  frankincense  and  myrrh; 

More  rich  than  gold,  more  sweet  than  spice 

The  fragrance  of  your  sacrifice ! 

You  mourners,  lift  your  weeping  eyes, 

Look  up,  behold  the  rifted  skies: 

Lo,  darkest  night  hath  brightest  morn, 

The  glory  of  a  world  re-born! 

And  all  the  molten  bells  shall  ring, 
And  all  the  broken  hearts  shall  sing, 

—75— 


SMALL  -CRAFT 


And  all  the  risen  dead  shall  raise 

With  one  accord  their  endless  praise: 

"Nowell,  Nowell"  (the  song  shall  pour), 

"Nowell,  Nowell,  from  shore  to  shore, 

New  Heavens,  new  Earth,  the  whole  world  o'er, 

For  ever,  yea,  for  evermore!" 


-76— 


ST.  ANDREW'S  EVE 

THE  last  night  of  November 

All  dreaming  as  I  lay, 
I  saw  a  fisher  toiling 

In  stormy  seas  and  grey,— 

A  glimmering  seine-net  casting 
In  foam  as  white  as  wool  .  .  « 

And  sometimes  it  came  empty, 
And  sometimes  it  came  full. 

That  port  that  fisher  hailed  from 
Was  the  port  of  Heaven  above: 

The  shining  net  he  cast  there 
Was  the  net  of  Christ  His  love. 

That  seine  it  shone  like  silver 

Or  the  Milky  Way  come  down  .  . 

And,  oh !  the  catch  he  took  there 

Was  the  souls  of  those  who  drown. 


—77— 


THE  BALLAD  OP  THE  RESURRECTION 
PACKET 

OH,  she's  in  from  the  deep  water,  she's  safe  in  port 

once  more, 
With  shot-'oles  in  'er  funnel  which  were  not  there 

before ; 
Yes,  she's  'ome,  dearie,  'ome,  an'  we've  *alf  the  sea 

inside ! 
Ought  to  'ave  sunk,  but  she  couldn't  if  she  tried. 

An*  it  was  "  'Ome,  dearie,  'ome,  oh  she'll  bring  us 

'ome  some  day, 

Rollin'  both  rails  under  in  the  old  sweet  way ! 
Freezin'  in  the  foul  weather,  fryin'  in  the  fine, 
The  resurrection  rmcket  of  the  Salt  'Orse  Line!" 

If  she'd  been  built  for  sinkin'  she'd  'ave  done  it  long 

ago; 
She's  tried  *er  best  in  every  sea  an'  all  the  winds 

that  blow; 

In  'urricanes  at  Galveston,  pamperos  off  the  Plate, 
An'  icy  Cape  'Orn  snorters  which  freeze  you  while 

you  wait. 
—78— 


THE  BALLAD  OF  THE  RESURRECTION  PACKET 

She's  been  ashore  at  Vallipo,  Algoa  Bay  likewise, 

She's  broke  'er  screw-shaft  off  Cape  Race  an'  stove 
'er  bows  in  ice; 

She's  lost  'er  deck-load  overboard  an'  'alf  'er  bul- 
warks too, 

An'  she's  come  in  with  fire  aboard,  smokin'  like  a 
flue. 

But  it's  "  'Ome,  dearie,  'ome,  oh  she  gets  there  just 

the  same, 
Reekin',  leakin',  'alf  a  wreck,  scarred  an'  stove  an' 

lame; 

Patch  'er  up  with  putty,  lads,  tie  'er  up  with  twine, 
The  resurrection  packet  of  the  Salt  'Orse  Line!" 

A  bit  west  the  Scillies  the  sky  was  stormy  red ; 
"To-night  we'll  lift  Saint  Agnes'  Light  if  all  goes 

well,"  we  said : 
But    we    met    a    slinkin*    submarine    as    dark    was 

comin'  down, 
An'  she  ripped  our  rotten  plates  away  an*  left  us 

there  to  drown. 

A  bit  west  the  Scillies  we  thought  'er  sure  to  sink, 
There  was  'alf  a  gale  blowin',  the  sky  was  black  as 
ink; 

—79— 


SMALL  CRAFT 


The  seas  begun  to  mount  an'  the  wind  begun  to 

thunder, 
An'  every  wave  that  come,  oh  we  thought  'twould 

roll  *er  under. 

But  it  was  "  'Ome,  dearie,  'ome,  an'  she  gets  there 

after  all — 
Steamin'  when  she  can  steam,  an'  when  she  can't 

she'll  crawl, 

This  year,  next  year,  rain  or  storm  or  shine, 
The  resurrection  packet  of  the  Salt  'Orse  Line!H 

We  thought  about  the  bulk-'eads,  we  wondered  if 
they'd  last, 

An'  the  cook  'e  started  groanin'  an'  repentin'  of 
the  past; 

But  thinkin'  an'  groanin*,  oh  they  wouldn't  shift  the 
water, 

So  we  got  the  pumps  a-workin',  same  as  British  sea- 
men oughter. 

If  she'd  been  a  crack  liner,  she'd  'ave  gone  like  a 

stone, 

An'  why  she  didn't  sink  is  a  thing  as  can't  be  known, 
Our  arms  was  made  o*  lead,  our  backs  was  split  with 

achin', 
But  we  pumped  'er  into  port  just  before  the  day 

was  breakin'! 
—80— 


THE  BALLAD  OF  THE  RESURRECTION  PACKET 

An'  it  was  "  'Ome,  dearie,  'ome,  oh  she'll  bring  us 

'ome  some  day, 
Don't  you  'ear  the  pumps  a-clankin'  in  the  old  sweet 

way? 

This  year,  next  year,  rain  or  storm  or  shine, 
She's   the    resurrection   packet   of   the   Salt   'Orse 

Line!" 


—81— 


LIGHT  CRUISERS  (OLD) 

(Vide  Naval  Expert's  Classification) 

WHEN  you've  marshalled  your  navies  and  gloried 

your  fill 

In  the  latest  they  show  of  invention  and  skill, 
The  lion  in  strength  and  the  lizard  in  speed, 
The  watchful  in  waiting,  the  present  in  need — 
The  great  Super-Dreadnoughts  gigantic  and  grim, 
The  thirty-knot  cruisers  both  subtle  and  slim, 
The  weight  and  the  range  of  each  wonderful  gun — 

Remember  the  cruisers,  the  out-of-date  cruisers, 
The  creaky  old  cruisers  whose  day  is  not  done, 
Built  some  time  before  Nineteen  Hundred  and  One ! 

You  may  look  to  the  South,  you  may  seek  in  the 

North, 
You  may  search  from  the  Falklands  as  far  as  the 

Forth, 

From  Pole  unto  Pole  all  the  oceans  between, 
Patrolling,  protecting,  unwearied,  unseen, 
—82— 


LIGHT  CRUISERS  (OLD) 


By  night  or  by  noonday  the  Navy  is  there, 

And  the  out-of-date  cruisers  are  doing  their  share; 

Yes,  anywhere,  everywhere  under  the  sun, 

You  will  find  an  old  cruiser,  an  off-the-map  cruiser, 
An  out-of-date  cruiser  whose  work's  never  done, 
Built  some  time  before  Nineteen  Hundred  and  One! 

It  may  be  you'll  meet  with  her  lending  a  hand 

In  clearing  a  way  for  the  soldiers  to  land, 

Escorting  an  army,  and  feeding  it  too, 

Or  sinking  a  raider  (and  saving  her  crew) ; 

Blockading  by  sea  or  attacking  by  dry  land, 

Bombarding  a  coast  or  annexing  an  island, 

Where  there's  death  to  be  daring  or  risk  to  be  run, 

You    may    look    for    the    cruiser,    the    out-of-date 

cruiser, 

The  creaky  old  cruiser  that  harries  the  Hun, 
Built  some  time  before  Nineteen  Hundred  and  One. 

In  wild  nights  of  winter  when  warmly  you  sleep, 
She  is  plugging  her  way  through  the  dark  and  the 

deep, 

With  Death  in  the  billows  which  endless  do  roll, 
And  the  wind  blowing  cold  with  the  kiss  of  the  Pole ; 

—83— 


SMALL  CRAFT 


While  seas  slopping  over  both  frequent  and  green, 
Call  forth  on  occasion  expressions  of  spleen, 
Of  all  the  old  kettles  awarding  the  bun 

To  the  out-of-date  cruiser — the  obsolete  cruiser — 
The  creaky  old  cruiser  whose  work's  never  done, 
Built  some  time  before  Nineteen  Hundred  and  One! 

And  when   the   day   breaks    for  whose   smoke-trail 

afar 

We  scan  the  grey  waters  by  sunlight  and  star, 
The  day  of  great  glory — the  splendour,  the  gloom, 
The  lightning,  the  thunder,  the  judgment,  the  doom, 
The  breaking  of  navies,  the  shaking  of  kings, 
When  the  Angel  of  Battle  makes   night  with  his 

wings, 
Oh  somewhere,  be  sure,  in  the  thick  o*  the  fun 

You  will  find  an  old  cruiser,  a  gallant  old  cruiser, 
A  creaky  old  cruiser  whose  day  is  not  done, 
Built  some  time  before  Nineteen  Hundred  and  One! 


II:  SONGS  IN  SAIL 


THE  COAST  OF  BARBARY 

MY  lad  is  on  the  water  and  far  away  from  me, 
And  I  pray  God  be  good  to  him  wherever  he  may  be, 
Up  the  sea  and  down  the  sea, 
And  along  the  coast  of  Barbary. 

Oh,  night  and  day  the  ships  come  in,  the  ships  both 

great  and  small, 
But  never  one  among  them  brings  a  word  of  him  at 

all, 
From  Port  o'   Spain  and  Trinidad,  from  Rio  or 

Funchal, 
And  along  the  coast  of  Barbary. 

If  I  must  think  he  comes  no  more  across  yon  seas 

forlorn, 
If  I  must  think  there  is  no  tide  may  bring  him  night 

or  morn, 
I'd  curse  the  light  that  I  look  on,  and  the  day  that  I 

was  born, 
And  the  cruel  coast  of  Barbary. 

—87— 


SMALL  CRAFT 


But  well  I  know  that  soon  or  late  he'll  come  back 
blithe  and  brown, 

When  the  fire's  a  good  thing  to  see,  and  the  dark 
drawing  down, 

From  many  a  wild  and  stormy  sea,  and  many  a  for- 
eign town, 

And  along  the  coast  of  Barbary. 

With  a  gay  silk  handkerchief  and  a  parrot  red  and 

green, 
And  shells  and  bits  o'  things  to  show  from  the  places 

where  he's  been, 
Up  the  sea  and  down  the  sea, 
And  along  the  coast  of  Barbary. 


—88— 


PARADISE  STREET 

As  I  was  a-walking  down  Paradise  Street, 
A  bonny  young  maiden  I  chanced  for  to  meet : 
She  gave  me  good-morning  all  as  I  went  by, 
With  lips  full  of  laughter  and  love  in  her  eye. 
"Here's  wine  in  a  flagon,  and  white  bread  and  brown, 
And  a  bright  pretty  parlour  where  you  may  sit 

down, 

A  fiddle  to  dance  to,  and  friends  two  or  three : 
Turn  again,  turn  again,  lad  from  the  sea !" 

As  I  was  a-walking  down  Paradise  Street, 

The  roses  and  posies,  all  blushing  and  sweet, 

They  bloomed  in  the  gardens  and  breathed  on  the 

air, 

A  breath  that  smelt  fine  as  the  roses  were  fair. 
They  said:  "Oh,  young  sailor,  why  go  you  so  soon 
Before  the  flower's  open  that  budded  in  June? 
Oh,  stay  for  to-day,  before  faded  we  be: 
Turn  again,  turn  again,  lad  from  the  sea!" 

As  I  was  a-walking  down  Paradise  Street, 
All  out  of  the  westward  I  heard  a  wind  beat, 

—89— 


SMALL  CRAFT 


All  out  of  the  sunset  so  loudly  it  blew, 
It  fluttered  the  flowers  in  the  gardens  that  grew, 
It  shook  the  green  shutters  and  rattled  the  pane, 
And  shrill  round  the  gables  it  whistled  amain. 
And  the  smell  it  came  blowing,  yes,  blowing  to  me, 
From  the  white  flowers  that  bloom  on  the  fields  of 
the  sea. 

As  I  was  a-walking  down  Paradise  Street, 
So  heavy  my  heart  grew,  so  weary  my  feet, 
I  said :  "I  must  go,  for  I  hear  my  friends  call, 
From  the  wine  and  the  fiddles  and  dancing  and  all. 
Oh,  keep  you  your  white  bread  and  keep  you  your 

brown, 

And  by  your  fireside  let  some  other  sit  down, 
For  I  hear  a  ship  calling,  yes,  calling  to  me: 
'Turn  again,  turn  again,  lad,  to  the  sea !'  " 


-90— 


THE  OLD  FIDDLE 

BY  Chinese  Charley's  junk-store,  by  the  Panama 

Saloon, 
Where  'longshore  loafers  lean  and  spit,  at  morning, 

night,  and  noon, — 
All  among  the  leys  without  a  lock,  and  locks  without 

a  key, 
The  old  boss-eyed  binoculars  and  sextants  on  the 

spree, 
New  Brummagem  and  old  Bombay  a-tumbling  side 

by  side, 
A  brown  bald-headed  idol  and  an  "'Extra  Master's 

Guide,"— 
Mouldy,   musty,   dumb  and   dusty,   broken  on   the 

shelf, 
I  thought  I  heard  the  sailor's  fiddle  singing  to  itself. 

Singing  in  a  queer  old  quaver,  shaky,  shrill,  and 

sad, 
Like  an  old  man  singing  songs  he  knew  when  he  was 

yet  a  lad, 

Q1 

J/JL 


SMALL  CRAFT 


Singing  of  a  good  old  time  that  all  too  fast  did  fly, 
When  the  world  was  rather  younger  in  the  years 
gone  by. 


There  were  scraps  of  dead  old  choruses  and  snatches 

of  old  tunes, 
We  surely  knew  in  other  worlds  and  under  other 

moons ; 
There  was  singing  in  the  half-deck,  and  the  sky  full 

oj  stars ; 
And   bits   o*  tipsy   shouting  out   of   gaudy,  glary 

bars; 

Little  tunes  on  Chinese  fiddles  in  a  quiet  street 
Full  of  dinky  Chinee  houses,  where  the  East  and 

West  do  meet ; 
"Ranzo,  Ranzo,  Reuben  Ranzo" — came  the  sound 

to  me 
Of  a  chantey  chorus  roaring  with  the  roaring  sea. 


Was  it  only  seagulls  piping  faint  and  far  away, 
All  in  rows  along  the  freight-sheds  where  they  sit 

all  day, — 
Mewing  round  the  inner  harbour  where  the  tugboats 

lie— 

Or  a  song  we  sang  together  in  the  years  gone  by  ? 
—92— 


THE  OLD  FIDDLE 


There  were  ships  that  once  I  sailed  in,   sail   and 

steam,  and  great  and  small. 
And  some  were  good  and  some  were  bad,  but,  Lord, 

I  loved  'em  all ; 
There  were  rusty-red  old  hookers  going  plugging 

round  the  world, 
And  Clyde-built  China  clippers  with  their  splendid 

wings  unfurled. 
And  all  the  winds  of  all  the  seas  came  singing  down 

the  street, 
With  its  smell  of  beer  and  harbour-mud,  and  tread 

of  weary  feet, 
Till  I  heard  the  stormy  westerlies   go  thrashing 

through  the  sails, 
And  the  Trades'  low  thunder,  and  the  Biscay  gales. 

Was  I  waking,  was  I  sleeping,  did  the  wet  wind  go 
Thrumming  in  the  slender  tops  of  ships  I  used  to 

know, 
With  the  deep-sea  glory  on  them  all  against  a  sunset 


'9 

On  the  tide  o'  dreams  a-sailing  out  of  years  gone  by  ? 

There  were  faces  long  forgotten,  friends  both  false 

and  true 
I  sailed  with  once  and  lost  again,  the  way  that  sailors 

do. 

—93— 


SMALL  CRAFT 


There  were  folks  I  loved  and  lost  with  smiling  faces 

all  a-shine, 
Came  and  walked  a  while  beside  me  with  a  hand  in 

mine. 

Are  you  dead  or  living,  comrade,  near  or  far  away  ? 
Do  you  ever  think  of  me,  lad,  friend  upon  a  day? 
Late  or  soon,  lad,  night  or  noon,  lad,  you  and  I  will 

meet, 
All  the  seas  and  years  behind  us,  strolling  down  the 

street. 

Was  it  but  the  muttering  tide  that  by  the  wharf 

did  go, — 

Or  the  footstep  of  a  comrade  out  of  long  ago? 
Did  I  only  hear  the  wave  lap  and  the  light  wind 

sigh, — 
Or  the  voices  of  my  shipmates  in  the  years  gone  by  ? 

By  Chinese  Charley's  junk-store,  by  the  Panama 

Saloon, 
I  walked  and  talked  with  shadows  there  in  all  the 

glare  of  noon, 
Where — among  the  keys  without  a  lock  and  locks 

without  a  key, 
The  old  boss-eyed  binoculars  and  sextants  on  the 

spree, 


THE  OLD  FIDDLE 


New  Brummagem  and  old  Bombay  a-tumbling  side 

by  side, 
A  brown  bald-headed  idol  and  an  "Extra  Master's 

Guide,"— 

Mouldy,  musty,  dumb  and  dusty,  broken  on  the  shelf, 
I  thought  I  heard  the  sailor's  fiddle  singing  to  itself. 


—95— 


DEEP  WATER  JACK 

OH,  it's  "ah,  fare  you  well,"  for  the  deep  sea's  crying, 
You  thought  you  could  forget  it,  but  it's  no  use 

trying, 

Trying  to  forget  it  when  it  calls  you  so !  ... 
Hey,  Deep  Water  Johnnie,  kiss  your  girl  and  go ! 

Here's  warmth,  and  soft  living,  and  an  easy  bed! 
It's  toil,  and  much  peril,  that  you're  going  to  in- 
stead, 

Hard  life,  and  bitter  faring,  and  a  poor  man's  fee 
Are  all  of  a  man's  portion  that  follows  the  sea. 

But  it's  "ah,  fare  you  well,"  the  deep  sea's  calling 
Back  to  cold  and  hunger  and  heaving  and  hauling, 
To  decks  awash  and  frozen  yards,  as  very  well  you 

know: 
But  ah,  Deep  Water  Johnnie,  kiss  your  girl  and  go ! 

How  can  a  man  help  it,  when  the  God  that  made  him 
Set  his  feet  to  follow  where  the  four  winds  bade  him  ? 
—96— 


DEEP  WATER  JACK 


How  should  a  man  help  it,  when  his  heart  goes 

jigging 

To  the   sea's   song  and  the   sail's   song  and  wind 
through  the  rigging? 

And  it's   "ah,   fare  you  well,"   for  the  deep  sea's 


crying 


You  thought  you  could  forget  it,  but  it's  no  use 

trying, 

Trying  to  forget  it  when  it  calls  you  so!  ... 
Hey,  Deep  Water  Johnnie,  kiss  your  girl  and  go ! 


—97— 


THE  BLUE  PETER 

LAST  night  when  I  left  her  my  true  love  was  weeping 

For  sorrow  at  parting,  but  parting  must  be : 
What  use  for  her  tears,  and  what  use  to  be  keeping 

A  lad  by  the  fireside  that  follows  the  sea? 
For  the  cold  day's  a-breaking,  the  town  hardly  wak- 
ing, 

The  moon  like  a  ghost  in  the  pale  morning  sky, 
And  the  Blue  Peter's  blowing  to  tell  ye  we're  going, 

And  the  gulls  in  the  river  all  calling  good-bye ! 


The  last  hawser's  cast  and  the  tug-whistle's  blowing, 
The  shore  growing  dim  in  the  mist  and  the  rain : 

And  wide,  very  wide,  is  the  world  where  we're  going, 
And  long,  very  long,  till  ye  see  us  again ! 


Farewell  and  adieu  to  ye — still  we'll  be  true  to  ye, 
Still  we'll  remember  wherever  we  be, — 

Hope  we'll  be  meeting  ye,  hope  ye'll  be  greeting 
Some  day  your  sailormen  home  from  the  sea  ! 
—98— 


THE  BLUE  PETER 


All  in  the  cold  morning,  all  in  the  grey  weather, 

On  the  sheds  and  the  shipping  the  rain  slating 

down, 
All  hands  to  the  capstan  bars,  roaring  together 

A  stave  for  farewell  to  the  folk  of  the  town : 
Hong  Kong  and  Vancouver,  Callao  and  Suva, 

The  Cape  and  Kowloon,  it's  a  very  far  cry 
From  the  slow  river  creeping  by  houses  all  sleeping, 

And  the  gulls  in  the  wake  of  us,  calling  good-bye ! 


—99— 


SHIPMATES 

GOOD-BYE  and  fare  ye  well;  for  we'll  sail  no  more 

together, 

Broad  seas  and  narrow  in  fair  and  foul  weather: 
We'll  sail  no  more  together  in  foul  weather  or  fine, 
And  ye'll  go  your  own  way,  and  I'll  go  mine. 
Oh,  the  seas  are  very  wide,  and  there's  never  any 

knowing 
The  countries  we'll  see  or  the  ports  where  we'll  be 

going, 

All  across  the  wide  world,  up  and  down  the  sea, 
Before  we  come  together,  as  at  last  may  be. 


Good-bye    and    fare   ye    well  —  and    maybe    I'll    be 

strolling 
And  watching  the  ships  there  and  the  crews  a-coal- 


In  a  queer  foreign  city  and  a  gay  gaudy  street; 
And  who  but  yourself  will  I  chance  there  for  to 

meet? 
—100— 


SHIPMATES 


You'll  blow  up  from  Eastward,  and  I'll  blow  in  from 

West, 
And  of  all  the  times  we  ever  had,  it's  then  we'll  have 

the  best, 
Back  from  deep  sea  wanderings,  back  from  wind  and 

weather, 
You  and  me  from  all  the  seas,  two  friends  together ! 

Good-bye  and  fare  ye  well:  may  nought  but  good 

attend  ye 
All  across  the  wide  world  where  sailor's  luck  may 

send  ye, 
Up  and  down  the  deep  seas,  north  and  south  the 

Line, 
And  ye'll  go  your  own  way,  and  I'll  go  mine ! 


—101— 


A  SEA  BURTHEN 

A  SHIP  swinging 

As  the  tide  swings,  up  and  down, 

And  men's  voices  singing,  .  .  . 

East  awaj  O!    West  away! 

And  a  very  long  way  from  London  Town ! 

A  lantern  glowing 

And  the  stars  looking  (down, 

And  the  sea  smells  blowing,  .  .  . 

East  away  0!    West  away! 

And  a  very  long  way  from  London  Town ! 

Lights  in  wild  weather 

From  a  tavern  window  old  and  brown, 

And  men  singing  together,  .  .  . 

East  away  O!    West  away! 

And  a  very  long  way  from  London  Town! 


SACRAMENTO 

'Fmsco  City's  grand  and  gay 
(Sacramento,  Sacramento!) 

And  the  roaring  night's  as  bright  as  day ! 

And  many  ships  go,  small  and  great, 

In  and  out  by  the  Golden  Gate, 
(And  away  O!  Sacramento!) 

Who  was  it  called  across  the  night? 

(Sacramento,  Sacramento!) 
What  was  it  flashed  so  keen  and  bright? 
Who  is  it  drives  down  'Frisco  tide 
With  a  six-inch  blade  deep  in  his  side? 

(And  away  O!  Sacramento!) 


Oh,  don't  you  see  Blue  Peter  flying? 

(Sacramento,  Sacramento!) 
Oh,  don't  you  hear  the  good  wind  crying? 
Oh,  don't  you  hear  the  capstan  chorus 
And  smell  the  open  sea  before  us? 
(And  away  O!  Sacramento!) 

—103— 


SMALL  CRAFT 


We'll  miss  you,  running  easting  down 

(  Sacramento,  Sacramento ! ) 
With  a  following  wind  from  'Frisco  town 
We'll  miss  you  beating  off  the  Horn, 
One  man  less  at  the  pumps  forlorn 
(And  away  O!  Sacramento!) 

No  more  time  to  spend  on  grieving 
(  Sacramento,  Sacramento ! ) 

All  because  o'  the  man  we're  leaving: 

The  salt  tides  drive  his  clrowned  bones 

In  and  out  o'  the  Farallones 

(And  away  O!  Sacramento!) 


CAPE  STIFF 

CBTTEL  is  the  sea,  and  the  hardest  thing  of  all 

Is  her  taking  and  her  leaving,  and  the  way  it  seems 

to  fall, 
How  always  it's  the  best  men  who  have  to  hear  the 

caU  .  .  . 

Ah,  Cape  Stiff,  and  the  big  seas  pouring! 
And  of  all  good  sailormen  that  use  the  deep  sea 
Where  would  you  find  a  better  or  a  truer  lad  than 

he 
That  we  lost  in  the  dirty  weather  from  the  fourmast 

barque  Tralee 

By  Cape  Stiff,  and  the  great  gale  roaring? 


It  was  all  hands  on  deck  that  night,  to  heave  her  to ; 
The  sails  were  frozen  hard,  the  cold  wind  bit  you 

through, 

You  couldn't  hear  a  man  beside  you  speak,  so  loud 
it  blew, 

Near   Cape    Stiff,    and   her   yards   dipping 
under ! 

—105— 


SMALL  CRAFT 


The  night  was  black  as  hell  ...  I  never  saw  him 

go  ... 
It  wasn't  till  the  dawn  broke  I'd  time  to  ask  and 

know 
The  sea  that  swept  us  out  and  back  had  rolled  him 

far  below 

By  Cape  Stiff,  in  the  great  seas'  thunder. 

And  fair  weather  or  foul  weather  it's  all  one  to  him, 
Though  the  sea's  in  the  half-deck  and  the  empty 

bunk  aswim, 
It's  a  long  watch  below  for  weary  head  and  aching 

limb 

By  Cape  Stiff,  and  the  loud  wind  crying! 

And  now  we're  rolling  home  before  the  good  Trade 

Wind, 
But  I'm  thinking  night  and  day  how  we've  left  him 

far  behind — 

Him  that  was  so  merry,  him  that  was  so  kind, 
By  Cape  Stiff,  in  the  cold  deeps  lying! 


—106— 


THE  LONG  ROAD  HOME 

THERE'S  a  wind  up  and  a  sighing  along  the  water- 
side, 

And  we're  homeward  bound  at  last  on  to-night's  full 
tide: 

Round  the  world  and  back  again  is  very  far  to 
roam  .  .  . 

And  San  Juan  Strait  to  England,  it's  a  long  road 
home! 

We'll  tow  out  to  Flattery  before  the  sun  is  high : 
We'll  shake  the  harbour  dust  away  and  give  the  land 

good-bye : 
And  singing  in  her  topsails,  O,  the  deep-sea  wind'll 

come, 
And  lift  us  through  it  lively  on  the  long  road  home. 

The  old  man  he  goes  smiling,  for  he's  gathered  in  a 

crew: 
We've  various  Turks  and  infidels,  we've  most  things 

but  a  Jew: 

—107— 


SMALL  CRAFT 


He's  got  the  pick  of  all  the  stiffs  from  Panama  to 

Nome, 
And  we'll  make  'em  into  sailors  on  the  long  road 

home. 

The  leaves  that  just  are  open  now,  they'll  have  to 
fade  and  fall, 

There'll  be  reaping  time  and  threshing1  time  and 
ploughing  time  and  all : 

But  we'll  not  see  the  harvest  fields  nor  smell  the  fresh- 
cut  loam: 

We'll  be  rolling  gun'le  under  on  the  long  road  home. 

We've  waited  for  a  cargo  and  we've  waited  for  a 
crew, 

And  last  we've  waited  for  a  tide,  and  now  the  wait- 
ing's through: 

Oh,  don't  you  hear  the  deep-sea  wind  and  smell  the 
deep-sea  foam, 

Out  beyond  the  harbour  on  the  long  road  home? 

And  it's  "home,  dearie,  home"  when  the  anchor  rat- 
tles down 

In  the  reek  of  good  old  Mersey  fog  a-rolling  rich 
and  brown: 

Round  the  world  and  back  again  is  very  far  to 
roam  .  .  . 

And  all  the  way  to  England  it's  a  long  road  home ! 
—108— 


THE  LOST  SHIP 

COME  you  up  from  southward,  oh,  come  you  there — 

away? 
And  saw  you  not  my  ship  there  that's  late  now  many 

a  day? 
And    touched   you   ne'er    a   port   where    she    came 

a-s ailing  thither? 
Where's  the  barque  Aurora  and  all  her  people  with 

her? 


Ah,  good-bye  and  fare  you  well  now,  ship  and  sailor : 
Ah,  good-bye,  for  never  harbour  more  shall  hail  her : 
Ask  the  unsleeping  drift  if  still  it  lifts  her  westing, 
Or  the  Tuscarora  Deeps  if  there  she's  resting. 


Home,  come  home:  it  is  no  use  at  all  to  linger: 
Never  will  be  tide  so  late  that  it  will  bring  her: 
Salt   like    tears    the    scud    is,    cold    the    sea    tides 

streaming : 

Never  will  you  greet  your  man  but  in  your  dreaming. 

—109— 


SMALL  CRAFT 


Ask  the  roaring  Norther:  ask  the  berg  that  broke 

her: 
Ask  the  growlers  of  the  Horn  where  last  they  spoke 

her. 
Ask  the  seas  that,  pouring  through  the  splintered 

hatches, 
Last  relieved  for  good  and  all  her  labouring  watches. 

Ask  the  crazy  gale  that,  hither-thither  shifting, 
Snatched  the  last  tired  chantey  stave  their  lips  were 

lifting. 

Ask  the  Austral  lights  that  in  their  dances  reeling 
Mocked  across  the  empty  skies  her  flares'  appealing. 

Ask  the  lonely  dawn  that,  scarlet,  silent,  splendid, 
Looked  across  the  world  and  found  the  fight  was 

ended. 
Ask  the  wind  and  wave  that  bruised  and  broke  and 

shook  her  .    .    . 
And  the  sea's  great  silence  at  the  last  that  took  her. 


—110— 


THE  OLD  WHALE 

WHEN  I'm  growing  old  ( if  I'm  getting  tired  of  sailing 
Up  and  down  the  seas,  and  alway:  finding  some- 
thing new), 
When  I  come  to  feel  the  sight  and  strength  of  me  are 

failing, 

Maybe  I'll  curl  up  then,  as  the  old  whales  do. 
When  I  live  on  land,  and  never  feel  the  fret  and  fever 

Pull  me  back  to  seaward  (as  may  one  day  be), 
When  I  hear  my  old  bones  saying  that  it's  time  for 

me  to  leave  her, 
Maybe  I'll  curl  up  then  ashore,  and  leave  the  sea ! 

I'll  grow  a  few  flowers  then;  I'll  have  a  few  friends 

nigh  me, 
Lie  soft,  and  never  care  for  all  the  winds  that 

blow; 
Eat,  and  sleep,  and  smoke,  and  let  the  hours  go  by 

me, 

In  the  little  easy  ways  that  old  men  know. 
Or  sit  by  a  winter  fire,  and  tell  the  old  tales  over, 
Listen  for  a  shipmate's  step  coming  to  the  door, 

—111— 


SMALL  CRAFT 


Talk  of  men  and  ships  I  knew,  from  Torres  Strait  to 

Dover, 

And   .    .    .   maybe  the  heart  of  me'll  be  happy  on 
the  shore  : 

Maybe  I'll  forget  then  how,  when  I  was  younger 
(Pleasant  folks  about  me,  and  my  girl's  kiss  on  my 


When  I'd  been  a  month  or  less  on  land  I'd  feel  the 

hunger 
Drive  me  through  the  ports  again,  looking  for  a 

ship. 
Maybe  then  the  shore  things  won't  seem  stale  :  and  I 

won't  waken 
In  the  night  and  think  of  all  my  friends  forgetting 

me, 
Nor  know  (when  it's  too  late  to  know)  how  sore  I 

was  mistaken 

Curling  up  ashore  there  L.   ^  ,..  with  my  heart  at 
sea! 


-112— 


Ill:  SONGS  OF  HOME 


A  MESSAGE 

IT  was  about  the  midnight  hour, 

I  heard  the  wind  go  by : 
I  heard  on  the  wet  mould  the  shower 

Beat,  and  the  bare  trees  sigh. 
I  heard  your  hand  upon  the  pane, 

Your  footstep  at  the  door, 
A  moment  lingering  in  the  rain, 

And  then  ...   no  more! 

One  moment   .    .    .   then  the  door  was  wide, 

Yet  none  there  was  to  hark, 
Nor  any  answer  when  I  cried 

Your  name  across  the  dark. 
There  was  none  there   .    .    .    although  I  knew 

Your  footstep,  ah,  so  plain! — 
Only  the  weary  wind  that  blew, 

And  the  driving  rain! 

Was  there  no  sign  you  could  have  brought, 

No  word  that  you  might  say, 
To  tell  what  thing  it  was  you  sought, 

And  you  so  far  away? 

—115— 


SMALL  CRAFT 


They  say  I  heard  but  the  rain  fall 
And  the  wind  beat  .    .    .   yet  I, 
Should  I  not  know  your  step,  though  all 
The  world  went  by? 


NEWS  FROM  THE  NORTH 

As  I  went  down  by  London  Bridge 

(And  I  not  long  on  land), 
I  met  a  lad  from  the  North  Country, 

And  gripped  him  by  the  hand, 

And  said :  "If  you  be  late  from  home, 

Oh,  quickly  tell  me  true 
How  fares  it  now  with  mine  own  country 

And  with  the  folk  I  knew?" 

Oh,  he  looked  up  and  he  looked  down, 

And  slow  he  shook  his  head, 
And,  "Sure  the  place  is  not  the  same 

This  many  a  year,"  he  said. 

"For  this  one's  dead,  and  that  one's  wed, 

And  that  gone  oversea: 
You  scarce  would  know  the  place  again 

So  many  changes  be." 


"Tell  me  no  more,  no  more,"  I  cried, 
"This  grievous  news  and  ill: 


—117— 


SMALL  CRAFT 


Full  well  I  know,  where'er  you  go 
The  round  world  stands  not  still. 

"For  folk  must  die  and  folk  must  wive, 
Since  change  and  chance  must  be 

Alike  for  those  who  bide  at  home 
And  those  who  use  the  sea. 

"Tell  me  if  anything  I'll  find 

I  knew  and  loved  before : 
Do  the  trees  stand  up  by  Oakenclough, 

The  winds  blow  off  the  Moor? 

"Do  magpies  in  our  planting  build, 
And  hares  by  Blackbrook  run, 

And  at  Top  o'  th'  Lowe  the  grasses  blow 
All  ruddy  in  the  sun?" 

"Still  runs  the  brook,  the  trees  stand  up 

By  yonder  cloughside  still: 
You  can  see  the  roof  of  your  father's  barn 

Look  over  the  windy  hill." 

"There  will  I  go,  and  there  shall  meet 

Old  ghosts  of  joy  and  pain, 
And  the  folk  I  knew  in  the  time  that's  gone 

Shall  greet  me  once  again. 
—118— 


NEWS  FROM  'THE  -NORTH 


"The  lad  that's  dead,  the  lad  that's  wed, 

With  me  shall  leap  and  run, 
As  they  did  when  we  were  boys  at  home 

Ere  roving  days  begun. 

"There  is  no  land  so  lone  and  far, 

There  is  no  sea  so  wide, 
There  is  no  grave  so  deep  that  there 

Shall  they  unheeding  bide, 
When  the  winds  that  blow  in  mine  own  country 

Do  call  them  to  my  side !" 


— 119— 


A  GARDEN  IN  THE  NORTH 

YESTREEN  I  walked  where  wind  and  tree 
Called  all  the  lost  years  back  to  me, 
Where  shaken  leaf  and  waft  of  bird 
Spoke  to  me  each  its  well-known  word. 


I  knew — ah,  well  I  knew  of  old 
The  wet  earth  and  the  sky's  pale  gold, 
The  light  wind  stirring  restlessly 
The  brown  leaf  on  the  beechen  tree. 


I  knew  the  far  grey  line  of  hills 
Behind  the  barn — the  daffodils 
Beneath  the  bare  bough  putting  forth 
Their  spears'  brave  challenge  to  the  north. 

What  more?    Only  the  joy,  the  pain, 
Shadows  and  dreams  that  waked  again 
(As  in  these  barren  boles  the  Spring 
Wakes  at  the  west  wind's  summoning) : 
-120— < 


A  GARDEN  IN  THE  NORTH 


Only  the  drift  of  thorn  leaves  dry 
That  stirred  and  sighed  as  I  went  by, 
As  if  some  page  I  turned,  and  read 
There  an  old  tale  of  years  long  fled. 

And  the  wise  wind  that  keeps  alway 
The  lost  sweet  soul  of  yesterday 
Brought  to  me  on  its  whispering  breath 
Love,  hope,  remembrance — Life  and  Death ! 


—121— 


GHOSTS  IN  THE  GARDEN 

IT  needs  not  in  the  owl-light  grey 
Hither  to  creep  with  mystic  rune, 

Nor  yet  in  shuddering  stealth  to  pay 
Lip-service  to  the  freakish  moon. 

Here  is  no  spell  to  sing  or  say ; 

Ghosts  in  the  garden  walk  by  day. 

Where  spreads  its  wide  and  plumy  wings 
The  stormy  sunset's  weeping  gold, 

To  these  lone  walks  their  presence  clings, 
Their  footsteps  stir  the  last  year's  mould 

Whose  vapour,  faint  like  incense,  brings 

The  fragrance  of  forgotten  Springs. 

It  may  be,  nought  is  seen  or  heard 

Save  sights  and  sounds  that  well  may  be 

But  passing  of  a  vagrant  bird, 
But  shadow  of  a  shaken  tree: 

By  presence  seen,  or  spoken  word, 

The  haunted  stillness  is  not  stirred. 

-122— 


GHOSTS  IN  THE  GARDEN 


Yet  o'er  the  leaf-drift  wet  and  brown, 
E'en  now,  some  lingering  footfall  past, 

And  where  yon  late-blown  rose's  crown 
On  Summer's  forehead  clung  the  last, 

The  waft  of  some  dead  lady's  gown 

Brought  the  sweet  ruin  shattering  down. 


—123— 


ALL  HALLOWS 

on  the  autumn  woods  the  mist  lay  white  and 
chill; 

And  I  heard  the  rising  wind  come  piping  down  the 
hill, 

And  the  stream  sigh  o'er  the  shallows 
On  the  Eve  of  All  Hallows 
When  the  house  was  still. 

I  did  not  set  the  door  wide,  no  meal  did  I  spread, 
Neither  a  cup  of  water  nor  a  platter  of  bread, 

They  came  without  my  calling 

When  the  night  was  falling, 

From  the  days  that  are  dead. 

No  dog  barked  at  their  passing  from  the  silent  fold ; 
There  was  no  step  on  the  doorsill  nor  print  on  the 
damp  mould 

To  tell  the  world  to-morrow 
I  supped  with  love  and  sorrow 
Ere  the  hearth  grew  cold. 


ALL  HALLOWS 


Dear    dreams    of  years   departed,   kind   ghosts   of 

vanished  days, 

Slipped  in  then  to  the  firelight,  stretched  their  hands 
to  the  blaze, 

Lost  voices  whispered  nigh  me, 
Loved  footsteps  lingered  by  me 
Ere  they  went  their  ways. 

I  heard  a  bird  crying  along  the  lonely  hill, 

I  heard  the  stream  sighing  and  the  wind  piping  shrill 

Across  the  frosty  fallows   .    .  t.. 

On  the  eve  of  All  Hallows 
When  the  house  was  still. 


—125— 


IV:  SONGS  OF  THE  WILD 


FRASER  RIVER 

FRASER  river's  flooding  high, 

Cold  and  deep  and  cruel  flowing, 

All  lonely  stand  the  hills  thereby, 

And  a  man  may  drown  and  no  one  knowing. 

Oh,  if  you  heard  a  shot  by  night, 
Heed  not,  for  it  nothing  strange  is : 

What  but  a  hunter  should  it  be 

Scaring  the  wolves  along  the  ranges  £ 

And  if  beside  a  mountain  trail 

One  man  less  a  camp  is  sharing, 
No  way  new  is  it  for  men 

To  come  and  go  and  no  one  caring. 


Oh,  let  you  ask  now  near  and  far: 

Oh,  let  you  ask  both  here  and  yonder : 

What  was  he  but  a  roving  man, 

And  who  can  say  where  such  may  wander? 

—129- 


SMALL  CRAFT 


If  a  thing  be  gone  it  comes  no  more ! 

If  a  thing's  lost  there's  none  shall  fipd  it 
Where  Fraser  river's  roaring  down 

With  the  weight  of  all  the  snows  behind  it. 

And  Fraser  river's  full  in  flood, 
Deep  and  cold  and  cruel  flowing, 

All  lonely  is  the  land  thereby, 

And  a  man  may  drown  and  no  one  knowing. 


—ISO— 


THE  PLAINS  OF  MEXICO 

THERE'S  a  country  wide  and  weary,  and  a  scorching 

sun  looks  down 
On  the  thirsty  cattle  ranges  and  a  queer  old  Spanish 

town, 
And  it's  there  my  heart  goes  roving  by  the  trails  I 

used  to  know, 
Dusty  trails  by  camps  deserted  where  the  tinkling1 

mule-trains  go, 
On   the   sleepy    sunlit   ranges,    and   the   plains    of 

Mexico. 


Is  it  only  looking  backward  that  the  past  seems  now 
so  fair? 

Was  the  sun  then  somehow  brighter,  was  there  some- 
thing in  the  air 

Made  no  day  seem  ever  weary,  never  hour  that  went 
too  slow 

When  we  rode  the  dusty  ranges  on  the  plains  of 
Mexico  ? 

—131— 


SMALL  CRAFT 


Then  the  long  hot-scented  evenings,  and  the  fiddle's 

squeaky  tune, 
When  we  danced  with  Spanish  lasses  underneath  the 

golden  moon, 
Girls  with  names  all  slow  and  splendid,  hot  as  fire  and 

cold  as  snow, 
In  the  spicy  summer  night-time  on  the  plains  of 

Mexico. 

V 

I  am  growing  tired  and  lonely,  and  the  town  is  dull 

and  strange: 
I  am  restless  for  the  open  sky,  and  wandering  winds 

that  range: 

I  will  get  me  forth  a-roving,  I  will  get  me  out  and  go, 
But  no  more,  no  more  my  road  is  to  the  plains  of 

Mexico. 

For  the  sun  is  on  the  plateau,  and  the  dusty  trails  go 

down 
By  the  same  old  cactus  hedges  to  the  sleepy  Spanish 

town, 
But  I'll  never  find  my  comrade  that  I  lost  there  long 

ago, 
Never,  never  more  (Oh,  lad  I  loved  and  left  a-lying 

low!) 
Where  the  coward  bullet  took  him  on  the  plains  of 

Mexico ! 


ALONG  THE  PRAIRIE  TRAIL 

I  KNOW  it's  only  dreaming,  and  it  never  may  be  more, 
But  I'm  thinking,  as  I  have  done  many  and  many  a 

time  before, 
That  some  day  I'll  be  standing  here  and  leaning  on 

the  rail, 
And  look,  and  see  you  coming  along  the  prairie  trail. 


Oh,  first  I'd  think  perhaps  I  took  some  other  one  for 

you, 
And  then  I'd  be  afraid  to  wake  and  find  it  wasn't 

true, 
And  there'd  be  sweet  flowers  everywhere,  and  singing 

on  the  gale, 
When  I  went  out  to  greet  you  along  the  prairie  trail. 


I'd  have  my  hands  in  yours  then,  and  you'd  have  hold 

of  mine: 
I'd  look,  and  look  again,  and  drink  the  sight  of  you 

like  wine, 

—133— 


SMALL  CRAFT 


And  ah !  we'd  have  so  much  to  say  that  all  our  words 

would  fail 
When  you  came  up  to  meet  me  along  the  prairie 

trail. 

I  daresay  dreams   are  folly   (but  sometimes   they 

come  true), 

And  after  all  is  said,  it's  just  a  pleasant  thing  to  do, 
To  stand,  as  I  do  now,  and  watch  the  sunset  sky 

grow  pale, 
And  think  you're  coming  yonder  along  the  prairie 

trail. 


—134— 


PRAIRIE  WIND 

I  LOOKED  out  as  the  dusk  fell  on  the  prairie  vast 

and  wide, 
There  was  no  dog  that  barked  there,  nor  any  tree 

that  sighed: 
Silence,  and  nought  but  silence,  was  there  on  every 

hand, 
But  for  the  lone  wind  blowing  over  the  lone  land. 

But  for  the  voice  of  the  lonely  places,  wandering  by 

Between  the  vast  and  empty  earth  and  the  star-sown 
sky, 

From  the  wrinkled  flanks  of  the  mountains  where  the 
eagle  rears  her  brood, 

And  screams  from  her  wild  eyrie  to  the  barren  soli- 
tude. 

But  for  the  voice  from  the  ramparts  where  hasten 

down  alone 

Cold  and  unforded  rivers  flowing  to  seas  unknown, 
And  the  lost  ranges  where  never  a  white  man's  foot 

has  trod, 

And  lakes  in  deep  hill-hollows  look  lonely  up  to  God. 

—135— 


SMALL  CRAFT 


But  for  the  ancient  burthen  of  the  long  uncounted 

years 
In  far  untravelled  gorges  where  the  waiting  echo 

hears 
Only  the  cougar  hunting  by  night,  and  the  eagle's 

cry, 
And  the  lone  wind  blowing  under  the  lone  sky. 


-136— 


PRAIRIE  SUNSET 

WHERE  the  Great  Chief's  sullen  crest 

Looks  over  the  land, 
The  splendour  floods  from  the  west, 

Ruddied  and  grand. 

Like  a  vast  Armada's  wrecked 

And  ravaged  pride, 
Reeling  over  a  flecked 

And  crimsoned  tide. 

Or  a  cachalot  lashing  the  spray 

In  his  wounded  throe, 
On  a  South  sea  far  away 

Where  the  whalers  go. 

Till  the  light  is  gone,  and  the  skies 

Are  cold  and  dree 
As  a  blue  gulf  in  the  ice 

Of  a  Polar  sea. 


-137— 


THE  OLD-TIMER 

TIMES,  they  say,  must  change,  and  folks  must  change 

with  'em  too: 
That's  how  it  is  in  the  West,  now  the  old  lights 

seem  to  fail: 
The  prairie  that  was  is  passing,  and  giving  place  to 

the  new, — 
Give  me  again  the  old  times,  and  the  buffalo  trail ! 


Give  me  again  the  great  days  between  earth  and 

sky, 
The  red  roaring  nights,  the  blood  that  leapt  like  a 

flame, 
Men  that  were  men,  friends  that  were  friends  in  the 

years  gone  by, 

Life  that  held  more  than  dollars  to  make  it  worthy 
the  name. 


Give  me  again  the  hot  hours  by  the  old  corral, — 
Bill  on  the  pinto,  and  Pat  on  the  buckskin,  and  me 

on  the  bay, — 
—138— 


THE  OLD-TIMER 


The  flurry  of  unshod  hoofs,  the  voices, — where  are 

they  all, 

Horses  and  men,  and  the  good  glad  hours  that 
were  yesterday? 

Do    you    remember? — but    only    the    prairie    wind 

replies : 
"Yesterday's  gone  like  a  gleam,  and  here  is  To-day 

with  its  change: 
Here  with  its  new  towns  growing  from  nothing  under 

your  eyes, 

And  the  scar  of  the  settler's  plough  on  the  last  of 
the  cattle  range. 

Yesterday's  gone,  with  all  that  was  in  it  of  good  and 

of  bad, 

Gone  like  a  hunt  that's  over,  a  song  that's  sung : 
Give  me  again  laughter  and  life  and  the  heart  of  a 

lad, 

Give  me  again  the  old  times    .    .    .   when  the  world 
was  young!"  . 


THE  CIRCUS  IN  THE  WEST 

ALL,  through  the  little  prairie  town 
'Mid  dusty  levels  broad  and  brown 

I  saw  the  Circus  pacing  on ; 
I  felt  its  vague  barbaric  spell, 
I  smelt  the  queer  old  circus  smell 

As  old  as  Rome  or  Babylon. 

The  tinsel  gleamed,  the  big  drum  rolled, 
The  ponies  pranced  and  caracoled 

In  gaudy  gilt  caparison; 
And  still  beneath  it  was  the  strange 
Sad  undertone  of  Time  and  Change, — 

As  erst  in  vanished  Babylon. 

I  saw  where,  wrinkled,  grey  and  wise, 
With  swaying  gait  and  brooding  eyes, 

The  elephants  went  pacing  on, 
Unmoved  amid  the  gaping  throng, 
As  if  they  only  thought:  "How  long—- 
How far  from  here  to  Babylon?'* 
-140— 


THE  CIRCUS  IN  THE  WEST 


No  longer  than  this  restless  hour, 
Its  lust  and  folly,  pride  and  power, 

To-day  as  in  the  ages  gone: 
No  further  than  this  feverish,  queer, 
New  town  which  was  not  yesteryear 

Need  mankind  seek  for  Babylon. 

New  towns  in  strange  new  lands  arise ; 

But  old  as  earth  and  stars  and  skies 
The  Circus  of  the  world  goes  on ; 

Still  travelling  on  its  ancient  round 

Where'er  man's  dust  of  dreams  is  found- 
Here — now — to-day — in  Babylon. 


-141— 


V:  ROMANCE 


ROMANCE 

MORN,  and  a  world  of  wonder !    Oh,  the  time 

Of  winds  like  trumpet  calls,  and  seas  that  gleam, 
And  sounding  sunlit  roads  that  wind  and  climb 
Far  over  hills  of  dream, — 


Travelled  by  knight  and  pedlar,  prince  and  priest, 
Past  many  an  echoing  port  and  ringing  bridge, 
To  some  black  fortress  like  a  couchant  beast 
Crouched  on  a  mountain  ridge, — 


Fords  perilous,  and  haunted  reach  and  pool, 
Far-shining  spires  under  the  blaze  of  noon, 
And  twilight  shrines  of  visions  wonderful, 
Dusk,  and  an  angry  moon. 

Glimmer  of  ambush — dungeons,  strange  escapes, 
Ships  swinging  on  the  swell  of  darkling  tides, 
And  faerie  forests  full  of  eerie  shapes, 

Long,  flickering,  grass-grown  rides. 

—145— 


SMALL  CRAFT 


Dark  crooked  streets  with  lights  like  peering  eyes, 

Plotters  in  half-lit  halls  of  palaces, 
Orchards  and  gardens  full  of  lurking  spies, 
And  whispering  passages. 

Travail  and  bondage,  battle-flags  unfurled, 

Earth  at  the  prime,  and  God  earth's  wrongs  above, 
Honour  and  hope,  youth  and  the  beckoning  world, 
Peril  and  war  and  love ! 


—146— 


MORGAN  LE  FAY 

I  WILL  put  by  my  violent  days,  and  the  ill  deeds  that 

I  wrought, 
All  wayward  sins  of  a  wild  heart,  all  empty  joys  I 

sought, 

I  will  forswear  the  fruitless  year  and  the  deedless  day, 
And  the  long  gold  tresses   and   false   caresses  of 

Morgan  le  Fay. 

The  songs  are  hollow  and  empty:  the  wine  is  idown 

to  the  lees: 
I  am  full  sick  of  the  witching  dance  and  unclean 

mysteries : 
And  the  palace  of  magic  and  wonder  just  an  ill 

shadow  seems, 
Wild  feasts  and  vile  faces  out  of  evil  dreams. 


There  shall  no  sleep  come  nigh  me  all  through  the 

long  night, 
Where  I  watch  mine  arms  alone  for  a  space  ere  I 

ride  forth  to  fight, 

—147— 


SMALL  CRAFT 


Alone  with  the  cold  altar  and  the  cross  of  my  slain 

Lord, 
With  the  stark  helm  and  the  grey  mail  and  the  cross- 

hilted  sword. 

I  have  bound  the  spur  to  my  heel  again :  I  have  rent 
the  past  like  a  scroll: 

In  the  bitter  waters  of  sorrow  will  I  wash  clean  my 
soul. 

I  have  put  by  the  worthless  world  and  the  deedless 
day, 

And  the  long  gold  tresses  and  false  caresses  of  Mor- 
gan le  Fay. 


-148— 


RONCEVAL 

O  WOE'S  me,  ye  people, 

And  woe,  brave  warriors  all, 
For  the  flower  of  all  princes 

Dead  on  Ronceval. 

There  lie  many  stark  fighters 
That  with  brave  Roland  rode — 

Rinaldo  of  the  White  Thorn, 
Ogier  and  Galdebode. 

And  Roland,  ah,  Roland, 

That  Was  first  of  them  all, 
Lieth  among-  his  captains 

On  red  Ronceval. 

Queens  weep  for  Roland, 

Kings  go  heavily: 
There  was  none  in  Christendom 

Better  loved  than  he. 

Prince  of  all  courtesy, 
Very  true  and  kind: 

—149— 


SMALL  CRAFT 


Tears  are  in  the  dwellings 
Of  Kaiser  and  of  hind. 

For  herdsmen  have  hearkened, 
Keeping  sheep  on  the  hill, 

To  a  sound  like  the  wind's  crying- 
Yet  all  winds  are  still. 

It  is  the  horn  of  Roland 
Nevermore  shall  call — 

That  mourneth  for  slain  armies 
On  red  Ronceval. 


—150— 


I  HAD  ridden  far  from  the  battle,  from  the  red  wrack, 

and  the  last 
Lost  hope  that  had  clung  to  hope  till  the  shadow  of 

hope  was  past, 
From  the  stream  that  ran  blood,  not  water,  and  the 

grief  that  burned  like  fire 
For  the  cause  lying  trodden  down  and  down  in  the 

battle-mire. 

I  had  not  washen  my  sweat  off,  nor  the  red  stain  o' 

the  field ; 
I  could  scarce  bear  up  my  battered  harness  and 

dinted  shield. 
Spent  was  I,  clean  forspent,  and  my  heart  like  lead 

in  my  breast, 
And  the  very  bones  o*  my  body  yearned  and  hungered 

for  rest. 

Then,  through  the  dusty  byways,  while  yet  the  West 

was  aflame 
Like  a  plundered  city  with  sunset,  at  the  end  of  even 

I  came, 


SMALL  CRAFT 


Heart-weary  and  body-weary,  with,  my  wounds  both 

many  and  deep, 
To  the  well  that  is  called  Oblivion,  to  the  quiet 

waters  of  sleep. 

Rosy  it  brimmed  in  the  twilight,  redder  and  fairer 

than  wine, 
Cold  in  a  grey  stone  hollow  I  saw  it  dimple  and 

shine : 
And  of  all  that  a  man  might  dream  and  desire,  then 

seemed  it  the  best 
To  drink,  and  be  no  more  thirsty,  lie  down  and  for 

ever  to  rest. 

I  looked  my  last  on  the  sunset  ere  my  dry  lips  drank 

their  fill, 
I  bade  good-bye  to  the  earth  and  sky  and  the  windy 

hill: 
And  all  I  had  fought  and  lost  for,  all  I  had  loved 

and  known, 
Came  back  and  lingered  beside  me  where  I  knelt  by 

the  pool  alone. 

A  bird  cried  o'er  the  pastures,  a  weak  wind  wakened 

and  stirred, 
Rustling  the  dusty  wayside  weed  like  a  stealthy  step 

half-heard : 
—152— 


THE  WATERS  OF  OBLIVION 


And  the  well  that  slept  in  a  silence  deep  as  the 

dreamless  years 
On  a  sudden  sobbed  in  the  stillness  with  a  sound  like 

human  tears. 

Old  trumpets  pealed  in  the  twilight;  lost  war-cries 
rang  as  of  old: 

And  I  looked  where  the  night  mist  gathered  ghostly 
and  grey,  and  behold ! 

Squadron  on  squadron,  rank  upon  rank  in  the  dark- 
ening sky, 

Saw  as  it  were  my  comrades  muster,  and  heard  them 
cry: 

"You  will  sleep  sound,  our  comrade:  never,  never 

again 
Will  you  ride  out  for  a  cause  forlorn,  in  the  wind 

and  rain. 
And  the  din  and  thunder  of  battle  shall  be  in  your 

ears  no  more 
Than  the  sigh  of  a  lost  wave  breaking  on  a  far-off 

shore. 

All  that  was  bitter  and  weary,  all  that  was  grievous 

and  hard, 
You  shall  put  off  as  a  garment,  and  cast  away  as  a 

shard. 

—153— 


SMALL  CRAFT 


All  that  was  gallant  and  goodly — the  splendour,  the 

glory,  the  gleam, 
Shall  pass  away  as  a  tale  forgotten,  or  a  long  past 

dream. 

Laid  aside  as  a  burthen,  as  a  child's  sorrow  forgot, 
Though  morn  and  even  clamour  the  trumpets :  'Why 

comes  he  not — 
He  who  was  once  our  comrade — he  whose  slumber  is 

deep 
By  the  well  which  is  called  Oblivion,  by  the  quiet 

waters  of  Sleep?" 

Win  or  lose,  what  matter  at  all,  when  the  unheeding 

hand 
Never  gropes  through  the  mist  of  sleep  for  the  rusted 

brand? 
What  matter  when  never  the  dreaming  heart  nor  the 

drowsy  eye 
Quicken  because  he  remembers  the  great  old  days 

gone  by?" 

Ah,  God,  I  was  weary  .  .  .  wtary,  and  wounded, 

and  sore  athirst: 
But  I  turned  from  the  clear  cold  waters,  my  heart 

knew  them  accurst : 


THE  WATERS  OF  OBLIVION 


And  I  rode  in  my  dinted  armour,  with  my  wounds 

both  many  and  deep, 
From  the  well  that  is  called  Oblivion,  from  the  quiet 

waters  of  Sleep. 


—155—* 


LOVE'S  MARKETING 

ALONG  the  lanes  from  market 

Folk  went  by: 
White  along  the  river-side 

Mist  did  lie: 
Hob  rode  the  grey  mare, 

Rob  rode  the  roan: 
Then  met  I  a  stranger  lad 

Trudging  alone. 

"How,  pray  you,  tell  me, 
Did  the  market  go? 

Sold  you  your  wares  there 
High  or  low?" 

All  in  the  dusty  lane 
Tears  did  fall: 

"Love  the  Fool,  Love  the  Fool, 

Men  me  call ! 

"Gold  for  the  bay  colt, 
Gold  for  the  brown, 
For  the  goodwife's  dairying 
-156— 


LOVE'S  MARKETING 


A  fine  new  gown: 
Silver  for  the  sweet  herbs 

That  in  the  gardens  grow: 
What  for  love,  what  for  love? 

Nought  but  woe. 

"Some  sell  for  money, 
Some  for  kind: 
What  though  your  wares  be 

All  left  behind ! 
Ah,  me,  the  bare  board! 

Ah,  the  chill  morrow!  .  .  . 
Love  the  Fool,  Love  the  Fool, 
Sells  for  sorrow !" 


—157— 


1999 


... 


UC  SOUTHERN  REGIONAL  LIBRARY  FACILITY 


A     000689051     1 


